I have made myself ill. I worked sixteen hours a day for eight days on the trot and by day eight I was struck down by an awful bug. Its either that or coast along for months with little creative investment, making work that is so divorced from the heart one becomes seriously depressed. It seems to me that the stereotype of the artist's working life can be true, we tend to work in a cyclical fashion, a bit like with the seasons but without the predictability.
“The canary bird in the coal mine theory of the arts: artists should be treasured as alarm systems.”
My blog, a thought or two