Artists get dirty

When I was a kid, I never minded getting dirty. And I mean sticking-your-feet-in-the-mud-and-the-grass-dirty, dirt-under-your-nails-dirty. It's a different kind of dirty than forgetting-to-take-the-trash-out dirty, or picking-your-nose-dirty. The latter two I do not care for. Which is funny, because there is a fine line between good dirty, and well, filthy, in our society. I'd rather be rolling around in mud than rancid milk, thank you, but to each his own. Personally, I like getting dirty making art. I like the feeling of accomplishment when I see charcoal smears up my forearms, ink marks on my cheeks, or paint crusted onto my elbows and knees. My hands are my tools, and I see no reason why they shouldn't reflect that any more than paintbrushes that need a good cleaning. When I had my three-hour art foundations class all freshman year, it came right before my italian classes, and I quickly learned the phrase, "mi dispiace, Teresa [my teacher], sono davvero sporche" (Basically, "sorry i'm dirty"). Lately, blue stains from cyanotype developer all over my hands have been my forte. When I start Van Dyke prints in a couple weeks, peeps are gonna think I've got a skin disease.

Currently listening to: "Noah's Ark" by CocoRosie