I finally finished the summer version of the landscapes for the Machias Show. I worked on it longer than most, changing things over and over, but I have it the way I want it now. I see all this work piling up behind me and I get a distinct feeling of moving forward. It is a precipitous journey, leaving me feeling rushed and uncomfortable. I want to stop and enjoy the present, but as soon as one painting is done, I have to turn away from it and move to the next, barely glancing back. I don't like this goal-oriented activity and what I have created seems superfluous.
The Epping Road series is different. I suppose it is because it has no end, and really no beginning either. When I began doing it, I didn't know it would be a series. It can go on and on, as long as I choose, at whatever pace I choose. It has no purpose but what I give to it, and there is no reason for its existence other than my pleasure in doing it. The paintings are the by-product of my enjoyment, souvenirs of time happily spent.
It's easy to see why I have never been much of a success in life, at least in a traditional sense. Working toward a specific end holds no appeal for me. I prefer process that is an end in itself. Thinking about results only drags me down.