I've been egging on and off all week, and will hopefully have time to take photos tomorrow. There are two or three eggs I'm quite happy with.

I'm so happy I unpacked everything agian -- I love opening the door of my house and catching a whiff of vinegar and melted wax. I love entering the study and seeing the mess on my counter/bar -- all the wadded-up paper towels stained with soot and dye, all the half-finished eggs, all my implements scattered everywhere. This means so much to me. It's hard to describe how much better I feel after I've played for an hour. Hard to admit how many nights I play when I should be grading or (most often) sleeping.

Recently visited the Dallas Museum of Art with a friend to watch a performance piece on the nature of Dada. While I like the idea of Dada I don't like discussing the philosophy. Parts of it, though, are linked to what I do. Painting eggs and calling it art is a little absurd, after all. And it's very much about chaos. I don't have a controlled environment. I use melted wax, and dyes I never measure out, and unpredictable results. I have a degree of repetition -- swirly lines and lots of color -- but that's about it. Oh, and a new word I used last time I blogged, one that I'm realizing is highly important to my work -- distressed.

To be honest I don't want to examine it that closley, which sounds a little silly seeing how much I like to talk and discuss. Some things are better left alone, though. The magic vanishes when you try to pin it down. And this isn't like unrequitted love, where there are two participants to lend endless complexity to the design. This is just me and a dye bath. If I examine it long enough I'm bound to figure it all out, which would be sad. I woldn't have any reason to continue, would I?

Then again, who spends that much time analyzing eggs, of all things? My own personal scon is a defense mechanisim keeping my art safe. My normal life makes me dismiss what I'm doing, focuses on the absurdity for a second, and then flees to something more, well, worthy. My secret heart probably sighs in relief (danger avoided! privacy regained!) and skips off to play.

The problem is that every now and then I need validation. If I don't get it my rational self will pack up my dyes and avoid egging for a year or two. And it's hard to ask someone to look at my work when I can't take it seriously myself.

I wish I had someone to play with.