Rummage

To rummage, or to ruminate, that is the question.

Whether to pilfer through attics and cellars for the mere assumption that a piece discarded into a box or a corner might be a treasure worth a pittance to another is a subject of great irony. If, by chance, I have chosen to place it in such box myself, then why should I anticipate that another would want it, presumptuously for a price? I ask myself, why do I spend so much time and energy worrying about these kinds of things. Handling and dusting and washing and ironing, this is servant's work. All to end up giving a large portion of these trinkets away? What am I thinking...? At least there may be a tax deduction in the cards.

The best joy I got out of this experience was to unload the giveaways to the thrift collectors, to trade select items with my friend and to paint the battered frames and experiment with the colors and finishes and then have the zap of inspiration to make paintings to go in to said frames.

Otherwise it is an exhausting trial of deciding what to do with this stuff. I am an admitted junk collector. So is my husband. So was my father. So was my grandmother. So was my Aunt Ruby. Where do you think it all came from? I know I am in need of counsel, but with each revelation such as this, I start to realize the things that are most important to me. I do believe that it is time to eliminate the vast quantities of stuff and concentrate on the paint and the pen, my friends. I will, however, need support and encouragement.

painting: Edisto Marsh I