Sunday Bloody Sunday

It's my thirty-third daily blog in a row and though I remain excited today about art I'm as tired as a dirty blind in an unused window overlooking a dead-end street. I want to interview the little people about their artist mother again, I want to keep pushing the idea of creative commitment forward, but the 4 year-old is on the laptop tearing through an imaginary landscape and the 7 year-old is watching an adult country drama on TV. The artist meanwhile is slumped like a hard week's scoop of dreams on the bright red sofa.
I try anyway:
Do you think being an artist is like any other job?
GIRL (7): That doesn't make sense, daddy. Don't write that, though. (Studiously squinting at screen) And don't write what I just said then. (A beat) And don't write what I just said then too.
Do you not want to talk about your mother and her art today?
GIRL: (bored) It's just that I'm watching TV.
BOY(4): It just is. (tapping keyboard on computer) What?
ARTIST: Why don't you write about the day that nobody wanted to talk about art?
OK.
I respect everyone's wishes and as it's a Sunday explore in my head the not so fluffy theme of art and spirituality, a subject raised by our host at lunch earlier when he got me thinking that some of what I rage against when talking about the artist's art can be a kind of spiritual frustration, as if something sacred within art is sometimes abused in the big bad world by the notion of art as only commodity. And yet some of what is made today can in fact be compelling, interesting, and unique, and for me to link art only with a complaint about money is absurd. I know: maybe I need to clean those blinds, use that window, and open that dead-end street a little bit more.