Tabula Rasa (with caveats)

Still Life With Brain Fog

random, 2025

It’s the middle of summer and, while I’m not travelling — at least not far and certainly not for long — I am planing to take some time off. Or trying to, anyway. It's a loose kind of off. More metaphorical than logistical.

The past couple of years have been difficult. Personally. Globally… well, who can tell anymore? Time’s gone abstract, the news stuck on some kind of apocalyptic shuffle: different headlines, same dread. I think we’ve moved beyond “difficult decade” territory. At this point, it’s starting to feel like a century in slow-motion decline.

I had a few studio-related posts lined up for this space, but I hit a wall trying to sort out the visual component. Substack wants images. But I’ve developed a fairly severe case of visual fatigue. Particularly with contemporary art. At some point late last year I even stopped going to museums. Not out of protest. Just exhaustion.

Substack was supposed to be my refuge for words—a visual sabbatical of sorts. As much as a commercial graphic artist can take one, which is to say: barely.

I’ve been dipping into older work lately, museum-wise. Older artists, older styles, older techniques, far outside my own practice. But even that’s been slow going. I suspect seven years of updating PCC daily has caught up with me. I know people talk about burnout like it’s a binary switch, but in my case it’s more like a low hum I can’t turn off. Ever-present. Just loud enough to drown out the idea of joy.

And so every post becomes a dilemma. Words? Great. Writing still works. But images? The idea of producing a relevant visual for every thought makes me want to hurl my computer into the sea. Yes, I have hundreds—probably thousands—of illustrations gathering virtual dust. Not to mention the endless archive of photos I’ve taken over what feels like the past five lifetimes. Still: no.

I tried the random image thing—throwing in whatever felt vaguely suitable—but turns out I care. I know. How inconvenient. I do want this space to be consistent, at least visually. But also frictionless. And that combination is proving elusive.

Writing? Still doable. Cooking? Surprisingly satisfying. Redecorating the apartment? Sure, why not. But creatively that’s about the edge of the map right now. I’ve gotten so tired of what I’ve been making, on my own time at least (client work is its own separate ecosystem), that I’ve been actively purging old visuals and art materials saved for later. Marie Kondo-style. If it doesn’t spark joy—or more than mild indifference—it goes.

That includes all the things I felt I should do. Not wanted to, but felt obligated to try. To push myself. Grow. Whatever the reason was—and I’ve honestly forgotten most of them—out they go. Tabula rasa.

I’m a minimalist at heart. I like order. Even if chaos insists on breaking in daily.

I do this a lot. Torch everything and start over. But this is the first time it’s reached my art practice. Which makes me wonder what took so long. Routine has its place—repetition, daily practice, all good things. But so is stopping. Resetting. And occasionally letting things just… sit.

There’s no grand insight here. No triumphant return, no hot take about creative reinvention. Just a small pause. A slow, quiet clearing of space. I don’t know what’s next, and I’m not in a hurry to figure it out. Which, frankly, might be the most creative thing I’ve done in a while.