It is, already, a month into 2023.
How has yours been?
I crossed into the year atop a hill, in 5°C, with only the rolling fields and hills in the horizon. There was no light but the moonlight; there was no one else but my two companions.
We watched the fireworks go off in Czech towns across the border – pinpricks of starlight bursting with a gentle pop-pop.
The rest of January is as it always is: full of family, friends, celebrations, drama… you know how it is.
This time, distinctively, full of art. Two museums in Wrocław, four in Munich, then an art gallery fair in Singapore. Getting to see Cy Twombly’s work up close; squeezing in a painting of my own; relishing the splendid memoir of Marina Abramović gifted by K’s mom; receiving a book on Basquiat from K himself.
For the rest of 2023, I want to keep this creative energy about me, and it may mean more travel, visits to galleries, downtime to harness art from free space.
I never understand when people said “This is my year.”
What does that mean? Every year is my year, just as it is not at all. I may own much of how it shapes up, but it is so easily and completely at the mercy of everything else too. 2020 is a perfect global reminder.
So 2023 is simply another year, a year in which I will grow; stagnate; take some steps back and some leaps forward. In which I will give and receive love; create art, dread some days, anticipate others. It is simply another year I keep on being. That is exciting, and enough.
Q 