I’ve lost count of what I’ve done and how many.
Apparently my storage system is a little wacky—
I remember working on an image,
but later I can’t find it.
Then it pops up like an Easter egg.
There are worse things.
Lately, Marcel Duchamp has been on my mind.
I haven’t attempted a tribute—he’s too complicated.
I haven’t done Dali either.
Well—I tried Dali once, but it offended me.
I had to tear it up.
Back to Duchamp.
Art historians call him the one who freed Art.
They also say Fountain is the most important artwork in history.
Duchamp promoted the Found Art Movement.
He would find an object, declare it Art, and put it in his next show.
A stool with a bicycle wheel.
A pane of glass with trapped debris.
If you thought he was joking, he’d hit you with a fifty-page monograph
detailing the philosophical and mechanical underpinnings of the piece.
Duchamp was the real deal.
Art is made by artists—
not defined by critics, gallery owners, or even the public.
It may not be liked.
It may be dismissed.
But if the artist makes it,
it is Art.
There’s a freedom in that.
Art isn’t bound to a medium.
It doesn’t have to be archival.
That’s a museum policy—not a definition.
Questions like:
What is truth? What is beauty? What is art?
These feel like things we should know.
But usually, in our desire to know, we get them wrong.
At the very least, we can define them for ourselves.
I’ve been going through a change lately.
I no longer create art.
I make art.
It seems like a small thing—just a shift in words—
but I’m serious.
Everything in the universe was created in one instance.
Since that time (and yes, time was created too),
nothing has been destroyed.
Everything has simply changed.
I take created things and make new things.
I create nothing.
But I am a prolific maker.
What about ideas?
Same thing.
Everything is built up.
I just put things together.
Of course, this is just my view.
I’m not saying it’s true for anyone else.
It’s simply what I believe—for me.
There’s too much responsibility in being a creator.
Too many liabilities.
Too much ego.
Putting a few things together is more honest.
More humbling.
And what about the days, hours, or months when I’m not creating?
Much easier to take a break from putting things together.
I’m just resting.
Yep—
I make art.
And I make it art.
A Work Progressing 
More Encouragement Thoughts
Encouragement can be found in a vast mountain lake.
A reservoir filled to the brim—more encouragement than we could ever absorb in a lifetime.
And yet, for most of us, it remains untapped.
This is stored encouragement—
the “frozen-in-time” encouragement found in books, in songs, in scripture, and sometimes even in physical places.
It’s available 24/7.
It’s free.
It’s honest and true.
And still—we ignore it.
Or worse, we forget it’s there.
Why?
Because we’ve confused the source.
We believe the most important encouragement comes from people—
from their words, their approval, their timing.
But the deepest encouragement often comes from sources that don’t change.
Static encouragement is powerful because it doesn’t shift with someone’s mood.
It doesn’t require performance.
It waits patiently—whether we’re ready or not.
Yet discouragement—usually from others—acts as a gate.
It blocks access to the wellspring.
“I feel discouraged.”
“Why don’t you read the Bible?”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“Why not?”
“Because Bill and I had an argument.”
This is the tragedy: a passing human conflict can disconnect us from eternal comfort.
The gate is small—but effective.
And the saddest part is, it’s easy to open… if we remember it’s there.
Sometimes it isn’t people that discourage us—it’s the world.
Your car won’t start.
You can’t find your glasses.
The traffic lights are all against you.
You switch lanes five times and still end up in the slowest one.
The world sends discouragement, too.
But here’s the key: you have a choice in how you see the world.
Gravity holds you down.
Fire burns.
Skunks smell.
But almost everything else is subjective.
The more clearly we see that, the less the world can discourage us.
People, however, are different.
They matter more.
Their words land deeper.
And they often unknowingly block our path to static encouragement.
A cruel word is bad.
But a cruel word that disables access to hope?
That’s doubly destructive.
So how do we respond?
We could shut people out.
“I will ignore you. I will no longer hear your words.”
But that comes at a cost: disconnection.
Instead, I suggest something else:
Change the ratio.
Most discouragement is patterned.
It’s not always mean-spirited.
It’s often careless, unthinking.
But intentional encouragement?
That’s different.
It ripples outward.
Encouragement is reflective.
It is viral.
When someone speaks hope, it helps others access their own store of encouragement.
More encouragement creates more encouragement.
The ratio shifts.
The world becomes better for it.
So take back the gate.
Reclaim your access.
Let the encouragement flow.