Concentric Circles

I awaken by scrolling through photos of art. There comes a conversation about a certain prominent art writer and a certain prominent artist. At the back of my mind, emails to reply to, phone calls to make, appointments to arrange or to keep, obligations and commitments peripheral to my obligations and commitments to my own work in the studio. The conversation I'm reading with my eyes, as they focus away from that chatter in my head, steers my thoughts to my accumulated strolls through museums and art galleries, and the question, "100 years hence, what will be the viewers' notion of the art of my own time? How much does being part of the conversation now really matter, to that end, or any other?" Is it all just another cocktail party or kaffeklatch? Outside, the diffuse waves of commuters' engines rise in volume, soon to still and leave me alone with the grasses and birds, and me, my doings. The radar screen's undulations keep missing the chance to signal my presence.

My Lambertville, NJ studio in the last week of August.