diary / by Edward Mullany


The consolations of art, for the artist who makes it, as opposed to the audience for whom it is made, can, I guess, be considerable, insofar as the making of it can distract the artist from whatever cares or fears or sorrows have driven her to that pursuit in the first place, even if, as an end, what she makes is of little importance to her, or is unable to hold her attention once it is made, so that she cannot dwell on it, or obtain from it much satisfaction, but begins again searching for something new, so that she is usually occupied, and rarely idle, although, if such is the case, it may be more accurate to say, of her body of work, that there are not so much individual pieces, but only a continuum of expression from which the artist looks up, from time to time, in order to maintain her sanity, or health, and onto which she imposes, for the sake of comprehension, beginnings and ends that are not artificial, exactly, but that cannot contain the entirety of ideas that the breadth of her efforts do.