Eggs

Make an egg. Make an egg. Make an egg.

When my mind is blank, I see an egg. To me, it is a perfect thing. A most favorite shape. A comfort.

Round, full, but not the oppressive infinity of a circle. Not the unknowable curve of a sphere whose perfection makes it impossible to find purchase. You couldn’t climb a sphere. You can easily imagine climbing an egg. An egg is knowable. We all understand an egg, though its purpose is to shield.

I often wish that color was as clear for me as shape - in my life and in what I make. But my mind feels a more shadowy place, and colors don’t find me the way light and dark and shape do. The result is that many things I make can be almost anemic - soft-shelled white shapes that might pop out of, or disappear into their backgrounds.

When my mind is blank, I see an egg. It is a promise, a portent, a future. An affirmation, a recitation. I think, therefore I am. I am, therefore I make. Make an egg, make an egg, make an egg.

Make like Salvador Dalí and make an egg a parapet.

Make like Agnes Martin and make an egg of lines.

Make like René Magritte and make an egg in a cage.

The egg can sit on a pedestal. In a cave. On an altar. In a nest. It can break to reveal your ambition; your search for hope and promise. It conceals your doubt.

When my mind is blank, I see an egg. There is no desolation. I cannot abide the emptiness of nothing. Of blank. Fill the space with a promise.

Make an egg, make an egg, make an egg.