I followed a black line for a decade.
I did it for a decade.
Fifty metres there. Fifty metres back.
Up. Down. Repeat. Up. Down. Repeat.
I was a swimmer. A good one.
I won medals and trophies and smelled of chlorine.
I didn’t know in those growing years, that life would present many black lines.
But, when I got my first arts job I saw others and their metaphoric black lines.
Throwing a pot. Creating a perfect brush stroke. Mixing paint and dye…
Over and over again.
The focus, the finessing. The training.
Hours, days, weeks, years, decades.
Up. Down, Repeat. Up. Down, Repeat.
Successes and crushing losses.
Intense practice. No matter what.
Little wonder we reverently call artists ‘practitioners’.