Wandering thru the gallery in Troy, looking at the quilting, sculptures, oil painting and photography. Seeing the list of classes on the wall from cooking to jewelry making. Passing the craft and supply stores that were open while a farmer’s market several blocks long was taking place…

I kept thinking about time.

How much time spent.

How much time was needed.

How much time was taken.

How much time had to be made.

Last night at a dinner, I complimented a woman, an accomplished oil painter, on her necklace. “Oh, it’s nothing, “she said, “the jewelry maker did in about ten minutes from a quick sketch I made there.”

I think that maybe she was just being coy. But why can’t something creative be done in ten minutes?  Why not? Why does it take hours, days, months to create something? Why is it so exhausting to think about how much time it takes?

We are a slave to time. We owe time. We need to give it time.

Last Sunday, there was a woman at the edge of the bay sitting on a bench overlooking the beach grass. She was pencil sketching in a book that she had in her lap. She never noticed me staring over her shoulder several feet away.

This week I thought about sketching in words. Short paragraph on chins, hair, colors, shapes. What I saw, what I see.

Just a small amount of time.

I’ve come to the realization that time is taking its toll, its payments. I don’t have the energy I once did, the ability to juggle that I did, the short time it takes to snap to it when getting something done. That I don’t have as many years as I once did. No way to get…to… it…later.

I need more time.

There is no secret. No books, lectures, seminars, groups, networking events, that provides some magical entry into sitting down to paint, to write, to photograph, to shape some clay in your hands. No special tools, no formulas, no algorithms, no brand names, or well knowns.

Just time.

The watchmaker of Switzerland, 1948
(aka What Makes It Tick)

Norman Rockwell, artist