What To Do Now?

I've just finished this inspirational trip and accumulated so much information 

about places that I love and feel some strange familiarity and connection too.

So what do I do now? 

What to do with all this stuff?

How do I maintain momentum?

As I travelled I not only maintained a blog about the journey, 

and took nearly 2000 photos, 

but I kept a journal, a written account of each day of the trip. 

I've always kept visual journals.

These journals, of which I now have 14 spanning 21 years, 

are a constant source of inspiration. 

They are not filled with finished art works, 

but words, doodles, cut-outs and pastings, ideas, thoughts and 

musings that have entered my being over time. 

It's like hoarding mental stuff that I can't afford to throw out, 

just in case I need it one day.

First book, Adelaide, 1990

Most recent book, number 14, 

started about a month ago, 

in Paris. 

Euro trip 2011, first entry

Paris-Lausanne train ticket

Prawns and Dali

So it's a little bit of overload at present and I'm not sure where to start.

And what's more,

the work I had hanging on my easel before I left is still there,

 and annoying the hell out of me. 

I can't reconcile it. It grates, it frustrates and played on my mind constantly as I travelled, 

because I knew I would have to come home and face it one day.

It's strange when you invest so much time in a piece of work, 

and it fails to "sing".

I've spoken to a number of people about this work,

to get some feedback and they tend to agree.

It's safe, too easy to read, and doesn't intrigue.

There is a lot more unpredictability and energy with my other pieces.

So that at least is my starting point.

I love the story telling/comic book/words aspect but need to find a new dynamism.

‘Valleydreams’ (114.5 x 76.5 cm) Charcoal, Pastel, Graphite on Paper

Lonely in Paris, I needed some clear air.

I sped through Normandie on a silent, smooth Gallic train, heading for fresh Atlantic breezes. 

As I approached Flers, I caught a glimpse of a handful of old farm buildings, boarded up and lying in a green valley that nestled beneath the shadows of large rolling hills. 

In that moment I was there. The artist, snuggled away in one of those ramshackle stone buildings for the evening. Beeswax candles, a small stove to make coffee on, a thick sleeping bag, some pens and my art book. A sanctuary I had quietly inhabited. Nobody would care. A place of solitude, peace and gentle thoughts to keep me company.

I marveled as the possibilities whizzed past the window of that train and were at once processed and entertained in a matter of seconds. 

Those moments haunted me in the days to follow.