A script on a stage. Seeing others make art, on the fly, off the cuff, by instinct and pure hunch.
But equally: the hot slab of rock at Artist’s Point. The sky still so very blue. The water glassy, dotted with geese and the motoring sailboat. All the light around me and the heat sink of the basalt under my back, and not a word in my head or an audience of any kind but myself.