This is the time of year that I really miss the track life. I don't miss the grind: the seven day work week, getting up way, way before sun up and the constant physical demands of very hard work on a human body. But man, do I miss the horses.
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| Moi on the shank, Bay Meadows |
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I hold my stories sacred...and I have lots of them. Spending twenty-five plus years in the microcosm of this community yielded a perspective of life in extreme. Now that I view this milieu from the outside I honor the membership I once held. My participation is from an artist's viewpoint and I'm okay with that as I was privy to this demanding lifestyle for over half my days.
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| Ponying at Bay Meadows, 1993 |
But I still miss the horses. Their beauty humbles me. The chiseled, cocked heads, the streamlined movement and poetry of an innate intelligence. Like a ticking time bomb, their power and danger vibrates perilously, barely contained, seeking release. Exhilarating and terrible combine to create a thrill undefinable.
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| Running a nervous filly, Golden Gate Fields |
There are several directions I can go with this. Oh yes, I have an opinion about every facet, nook and cranny of this game. As I grow older, I prefer to simplify and be grateful for my time spent in this exclusive club. Aging often makes one yearn for the past, a past not applicable to present conditions. So I'll stay here and paint.
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| Michael & I in the paddock, somewhere on the California Fair Circuit. Great times. |
But man I miss the horses.
Sharon
