The yearly rhythm

Around New Years I try to live,
and I succeed exponentially
as the sun gets brighter
and gives more heat.

Then I collect myself.
About this time each year.

Some pieces have ended up folded over folding chairs, next to drying bikinis and worn, unread books.

I feel like I’ve left limbs:
the excited wave of a hand,
my feet over worn down stones,
my heart over again,
to shore after shore,
meeting after meeting.

The confetti glitters

until it’s caught by the gravity of fall,
and it sinks back down to me,
all out of order and organization.

I need to make everything big enough to fit inside me again.

The clean up happens when the evenings turn dark.
This is the inwards speaking,
writing down, painting,
time of making this experience make sense.

I pick up each leaf and look at it.

A post in Swedish

For my childhood home.

Skrivet sista kvällen.

För det du har varit.
För ormbunken.
För skogen.

För de döende träden som höjer sig över mig när jag går den mörka vägen fram. Himlen är mörkblå. Gräs och löv mörkgrönt. Ljust i ljuset, svart i skuggan. Jag går längs den gamla cykelvägen och väljer en plats att vända mig om och titta, och vägen bakom mig frågar om jag är redo att gå vidare. När jag svarar ja och vänder mig om kollapsar den in bakom mig, döende träd och solnedsgångsstigar och barndomskojor där vi letade efter de första blåsipporna varje vår. Det sväljer sig själv. Gatlyktor och måne och träd blir om intet. Och i dess plats, i samma ögonblick som det försvinner, stiger ur samma intet det gröna gräset tillbaka, vått av dagg i morgonen, i det stiger knoppar, babyblå och rosa, som försöker ta sig till solen – blomstrar till små blommor – unga som dagen vecklar de ut sig; vackra som allt tungt de inte behöver bära.

Och så överlämnar vi barndomen till någon annan.

Watercolour sketches

What even is my art style?

Right now I realised that this pen is wonderful in combination with these paints and this really nice paper, and so I made a certain kind of little paintings. But it’s not really my style. Or is it? I wonder how long I’ll feel like I’m in the developing stage of who I want to be as a painter.

Anyway, my style or not, I’m really happy with these portraits.

Adding another face:

(Also, I’m in the midst of moving back home from Sweden (from Germany) but for some reason I just want to paint? Maybe I’m processing something.)

In orbit

What is your center of gravity?

You can notice what your mind is orbiting by observing what happens when you try to stop thinking. Go quiet for a second, and see what automatically pops up in your brain. Or if you start doing something brainless, like vacuuming, what is it that you start thinking about? It can be work stuff, if you’re in a productive flow, it can be problems, or it can be something completely removed from your own life, something from a book or tv show (as it often is for me).


What are you orbiting?

And then, once you realise it, what do you want it to be? And how do you change, or control it?

Through this: What you focus on becomes magnified in your life. It starts to take up more space. It becomes something that’s there in the back of your mind, even when you do other things. So, take your attention and choose what to aim it towards. Make sure it’s the right thing.

To me, it’s a bit like a solar system. I’m planet earth, and I close my eyes and think about what I’m orbiting.