I have come to the conclusion that my subjective account of my motivation is largely mythical on almost all occasions. I don’t know why I do things.
J.B.S. Haldane

It was dark in my studio. I didn’t realize it at first, I was a victim of gradual acceptance. But there was no denying it anymore, even with all the lights on and the lengthening spring days providing more light through the windows, it was definitely hard to see in here.

Although it had escaped me at first, the cause of the gloom would have been obvious to even the most casual onlooker. Huge piles of stuff, files, books, clippings, reference articles, empty cereal boxes, used cd cases, dried tubes of paint, markers, (does anyone still use markers?), animal bones, illustration board, broken drawing templates, paint hardened brushes, bird nests, cardboard saved for shipping things in, bits of broken pastels, and on and on, rose up all around me, masses of “too good to toss,” junk. The looming stacks of stuff, all considered invaluable to me for some reason, at one time or another, had accumulated in such numbers and had become piled so high,that they blocked out the sunlight from my windows and began to eclipse the light trying to fight its way down from the fixtures above.

It must have happened slowly, over time, but I guess I just become conditioned to walk the maze of pack-ratted debris and not notice the long, roundabout path it took to reach my easel, although I did notice that from the time I left the kitchen, until the time I sat down at the computer, my coffee would get cold. Every once and awhile I would hear a slight, faraway groan, sometimes followed by a puff of dust, as a pile collapsed under its own weight, the way an unsupported ceiling might give way in a coal mine.

Sighting safety reasons, my wife began refusing to let the kids enter the room. Boy Scouts in need of a Mountaineering Badge were beginning to line up in the driveway, the scoutmaster confiding, “It isn’t often an opportunity to scale peaks like those comes along, especially here in the Midwest. “ He peered up the full height of one of the stacks, paled, and checked a knot on one of the boy’s safety harness.

Meanwhile, I began to trail string out behind me as I entered the studio each morning, insurance that I could find my way back at the end of the day, and considered slipping a few dog treats in my pocket everyday before heading in. This way if there was a collapse, I reasoned, and I was buried, there was hope that my dog might be able to find me. Besides, if I was forced to eat them while waiting to be rescued, I was guaranteed whiter teeth and fresher breath.

Finally, as I sat by my easel in the barely-there light of noonday, teetering stockpiles of junk swaying menacingly overhead, I realized the time for easy solutions was past. There was nothing to be done but relocate the mountain goats and undertake a massive clean up, but after being denied federal stimulus money for the project, it was obvious, I would have to go it alone.

Hours of cleaning turned into days, turned into weeks, or so it seemed. But eventually the skies began to brighten again. The skyscrapers of accumulation gradually were reduced to smaller more manageable mounds, which in turn were sorted through, their contents categorized put away or discarded. There were a few surprises. I found some great watercolor board that I had been saving for just the right project, a pet cat named Chester that we assumed had run away, and a layout for a mural job that never came to pass. I always liked that rough. It was partly executed using markers.

Things are brighter in here again after the big cleanup. My coffee is still hot now when I carry it in from the kitchen and sit down at the keyboard. I do miss having the scouts drop by, but with the money I saved by canceling construction of the bobsled track I was able to replace a bunch of the ruined brushes and even buy some nicely textured paper that I’m eager to try out. I’m too busy to use it at the moment but I have it stacked over in the corner, where I won’t forget about it, right on top of the broken computer I’ve been meaning to get fixed.