Today I noticed how bare the wall looks without its paintings. Taking them down to clear the way for a new month’s work always makes me feel as if the Grinch has come, and left nothing but the tacks. I put up a mask in their place; it doesn’t help.

Now, on the wall there are: a mask, three small bulldog clips (French bulldog clips?), numerous pins, one small painting of silk, and words from Patti Smith:

“Why do we write? A chorus erupts. Because we cannot simply live.”