Blank

A blank piece of paper or a blank canvas is often a nightmare for writers and painters. As a sculptor, you have it easy, at least you have a chunk of rock or a shapeless lump of clay you can sink  your teeth in. Even photographers have it easy, there's always something in front of your lens, even if that is still out of focus, there is already something of form, color, movement.

Blank, for most people, is something ominous, the feeling of not knowing what to do and not know how to behave. Form, opinion, judgment and emotion gives something to hold on to, even if this grip is scary or improbable, a grip is a grip.
 

As a child I looked under my bed at least ten times before I dared to go to sleep. The folds in the curtain all by themselves became a robber with a dull ax and how ever scary the robber was in my eyes, he had a form with matching emotion and that made it manageable. Later I learned to transform the robber into a giant rabbit with three ears or a fat woman with huge breasts, but it never became the curtain.

Lately, my hunger for blank increased enormously. Not know and to find no support in form of emotion is a sometimes confusingly liberating.