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by Catherine Owen


Pressured by the world to make decisions, choices, commitments and devotions not directly related to art OCD Crow often waffles, wavers. Not in the sense of being wishy-washy. No, she is decisive, even too aggressively so at times. More in the way of worry that her art may be compromised by adherence to job, person, finances, contracts, finalities. And yet so much of these aspects of life are unavoidable, even desirable. Even, yes, yearned for. But nothing is longed for as much as the solitude and presence of mind that making art requires: the hours of research, watching, feeling, thinking, walking and then writing, playing, framing, composing, and even after this the time for editing, shaping, revising, submitting, remaking, waiting. The Crow was asked today by someone who loves her how much of art-making and its perhaps decisions/choices/drives is related to selfishness. None, she replied immediately. It is not the self who says I must. Art is a vocation that assumes a channel in a particular body and psyche. One scoffs at that kind of supposed idolization of the artist. But that’s not it. Anyone doing anything who is passionate, obsessed and feels called is not led by the self but by that which beckons them. This journey does not exclude love and other aspects of existing. But the called cannot be resigned to mere survival. To coping without what has fathomed her path once she knows, beyond the shadow cast by an ineffable bird’s wing, the why of why she is here.