Unpredictable Predictability

Early morning in the studio

The Heart Still Beats in winter; 8” x 8” Mixed Media Collage by Crystal Marie

The weather has been weird. The news cycle has been weirder. The unpredictability of each seems to mirror the other. Waking each day wondering what unprecedented event has happened during sleep? What unwelcome surprises await this day? Opening social media, a virtual landmine, one wrong move and whatever soothing of the nervous system scrolling brings goes out the window.

What has been predictable each day—wandering into my studio, second cup of coffee in hand, the worktable is covered in an array of collage materials and half formed compositions. A pile of possibilities. Next to it, another table filled with finished works, waiting to be attached to something stable—mat board or panel or maybe a frame.

Outside a horn blasts, longer than the usual warning to pedestrians when emerging from the alley. This too, is becoming predictable—the street is filled with cars parked on either side, leaving little room for vehicles to comfortably pass driving in opposite directions, while traffic backs up at the busy intersection a few yards away. Impossibly narrow for the school bus that must navigate through the residential streets each day. The driver is forced to maneuver inch by inch, slowly making her way towards the intersection while cars turn into her path from the busier street and stop in front of her, nose to nose, unsure what to do.

Each day, I stand, watching through the sheers hanging in my window, coffee in hand, resisting the urge to go out and direct cars out of her path. Back up! She gestures wildly with one hand while the other holds firm on the horn. Sometimes they reverse course right away, other times they stubbornly inch their way forward, as if some portal will magically open up allowing them to pass. The school bus always wins the standoff, there’s no other way—that’s the predictable part, but how long it takes each day shifts as unpredictably as the weather.

Back at my studio table, I assess the current jumble of loosely arranged fodder and decide what is ready to complete and what beginnings look promising. I tune out the weather, the traffic, the news. Here in the early morning light I settle, until coffee grows cold and there is nothing left but the steady rhythm of brush on paper and glue.