Penland Persists As It Insists

Two days left and I am without resources. Paper supply exhausted, I must limp to the finish with scraps. I came to Penland woefully unprepared. I should have brought three times the amount of paper. Rules and squares would have helped, also. I blame this place. Everything in this deceitful valley conspires to corrupt my world weary, jaundiced outlook on art and its processes.

Fully prepared to endure this two week term dutifully experiencing class and lectures while casually strolling rustic landscapes looking to find a place to finish reading the books I brought, I settled into my assigned room. The books have remained where I laid them upon arrival. Where that is, I couldn't tell you as I lost track of everything not applicable to the insanely addictive class I chose. The organizers diabolically filled the roster with a mixture of letterpress aficionados to subtly derail my carefully groomed apathy to the field. I was lost to the madness that unites this demographic. Add to this creative opiate of a class an instructor who has sold his soul to the craft and with sinister intent, gleefully spreads his doctrine.

Trying to tread water in this maelstrom of a medium, I am quickly drifting off. I will return to class even though I face additional frustration that is oddly too much fun. I will try to resist the invigorating atmosphere and conversation. I will do my best to remain indifferent to competence, extreme creativity, artistic passions tempered only by cultured souls. I must remain true to my small minded beliefs. I will try, but I will fail.

I cannot throw in the towel although the greater part of it is hanging over the top rope. I cannot hide any longer behind painfully ornate prose and sorely bent metaphors. Once more into the breach or more correctly, the composing gallery, as it were.

Thank you, Penland.