On Art

Here I am computer in hand and fingers ready to type.  This time, it’s art.  I’ve decided to pick my own brain regarding the captivation I feel when I create and make things and also what I think about the process in general, so let's see what happens, shall we?

When I’m in the studio paintin’ away on somethin’, I’m usually totally lost in the moment, spellbound by the process and enveloped in “the zone”.  Like a jet plane becoming airborne, I find that my state of mind transcends the mundane and elevates beyond the daily, waxing truly sublime.  I’m relaxed, content and open (the ideal state for receiving more ideas which, in turn, come).  The calm I feel is complete, there’s no lack or want and the very act of painting itself feeds my internal appetite, providing fire for the soul.  

Akin to reading or horticulture, arting can be deeply satisfying - an end unto itself.  It is giving by nature and the only taking it asks is that you faithfully render it’s truth onto your surface of choice.  Trust is essential, doubting is death, first thoughts are everything - unfiltered, heavenly, perfect - whatever they may be.  

Creativity is also like clay and potential.  It is malleable, like a ball you hold in your hands that, once softened and primed for action, can be molded and manipulated any way you choose (giving way to prospective genius!). This preparation takes practice, though.  Factors like falling and getting back up, stretching, tearing apart, piecing back together again, thought, balance and adjustment all make up this process.  Many, many, many mistakes also make up that blessed imaginative state.  Furthermore, it is impossible to reach already “knowing everything”.  Like Charlie and his family before they struck it rich in that Willy Wonka film, you have to be willing to be hungry and honest about it in order for potential to find you a worthy recipient.  And when it does, it will reward you handsomely.

To create is to imagine, to feel the pulse of that cosmic artistic vein that pulsates through the atmosphere, granted us by God Himself.  It is both the act of becoming (or making) and discarding, a sort of simultaneous paradox .

Another thought is that it is imperative to replenish the impulse to art inside of us regularly.  If there’s nothing to feed on, how can we produce anything?  Things like reading, travel, museums and walks can all serve to satisfy the emptiness that finishing a piece of art can sometimes generate.  Like birthing a child, the act of creating can leave us empty and we need to be sensitive and cater to that void - refilling our stations, so to speak.

These considerations are all things that have come to me as I’ve thought and ruminated over my own artistic journey.  They are in no way comprehensive, but I think can serve to help understand that unique beast that is art.

Faith

Mysterious, this faith.  

Takes a lifetime of cultivation, blood, sweat, tears.  

Although an occasional snooze is permitted, don’t fall asleep on the job! 

Invisible, imperceptible, ‘tis yet one of life’s strongest forces.

To the faithful, it is everything - to the atheist, at best, a joke.  

For me, it’s hope.  

Pipe dreams!  You might say. 

Wishful thinking!  One may surmise.

Based on what?  Some could sneer.

Yes, yes, I understand.

But for me, it is reality:

“The assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” (Hebrews 11:1) 

Often, I’ve coasted - prayed faithless, conniving prayers.

Groping my way along the dark, winding path life is, 

I’ve faltered and reached for the instructions, cheating my way out of faith’s practice, fair and square. 

Still, somehow, the light has managed the impossible:  to seep in and settle around my shoulders - like the warmest blanket.

Cozy and snug, faith is a muff for my soul,

Sieve for my doubt,

Repository for the yearnings I fancy in silence, 

The default for releasing uncertainty and fear.

It never fails to bolster, hearten, comfort.

Like Red Bull, it gives me wings,

And in its promise, my spirit takes the flight of hope.

Call me crazy - some have - but let me indulge!

After all, instructions may get the job done, 

But faith yields possibility - a whole lot more fun.

     

  

   

Polk Street Blues

Her small form hovered around me like a mother bear doting on a sick cub.  Silently picking up after me in the tiny disaster of a room that I occupied, her compassion was overwhelming.  Dirty laundry, plates, and pans, grimy windows, dusty knick knacks, an old, gray shag that had seen better days and, lets not forget, the lingering stench of death impending peppered the room.  This was the cheery reality that my mother came to when she visited me in SF during the spring of '98.  

I had previously crescendoed with the bipolar disorder that I had gotten slammed with a few years back and was subsequently reeling in it’s wake.  Having ridden its manic wave for all it was worth and then some, I was now experiencing its polar opposite: a tormenting depression.  But back to my mom.  I cringe to think of how helpless she must have felt watching me spiral into that harrowing abyss but she never let it show.  Instead, with a tender smile and a calm demeanor that never left her, she rolled up her sleeves and went to work tending to her sick daughter in one of the bravest, most important roles of her life.  No small feat.  Being present to me, who at 26 needed constant attention and care was, I’m sure, exhausting.  She bought me food, stayed by my side ever ready to listen, affirm and humor my gloomy ramblings, took me to nice restaurants which I couldn’t enjoy because of the eating disorder I was still plagued by and was, simply, saintly in every way.  

Something bizarre that I wouldn’t let go of during her visit was the need for me to write my mother a letter.  Let me explain.  Since I couldn’t communicate well through words (depression had stolen my coherency) I became obsessed with trying to write her a letter instead.  Too sick to realize that she knew it anyway, I thought that if I stole away and penned her an essay about how much I loved her, she'd know what was in my heart and I’d feel better.  Communication has always been key for me.  

This warped thought process led me to leave her side for chunks at a time in which I’d desperately stuff myself in some cafe or bench along Polk, the street I lived on and try to compose something meaningful, which never worked.  In fact, it only served to heighten my anxiety because I knew that I was wasting precious time.  My mom, gracious as she was, played along hiding what I’m sure must have been a growing concern for me.  I know my futile attempts at scribing broke her heart as they only made my illness more glaringly obvious.

In one of the few pictures I have from those painful times, you can see my mother smiling and diminutive, arm around my waist as though holding me up and I, an unhappy giant hovering over her tiny frame, leaning on her as though I was losing my balance.  The misery of the moment is obvious on my face even though we were framed by a gorgeous, sunny day.

My mom was a slice of life in the otherwise dingy existence that I dragged myself through during those parched years.  Brave and determined to help, she was the singular reason I didn’t let myself die.  Her love, fierce and loyal cut through my anguish when nothing else could and even though I would face many more years of mental malady, knowing that someone unconditionally loved me made the difference between life and death. 

I’m in a completely different place now, in fact, it feels as if I’m talking about someone else when I revisit those crazy years.  Since then, I’ve grown in more ways than I can count and of course, life has happened as it does. But my mother’s love, the one true thing that has sustained me my whole life, still lights up my world.  For me, it is like the dawn of a new day or the scent of a daisy, pure and honest and true.  I know that at some point, I’ll have to let her go, but for now I will enjoy the love that has always warmed my bones and and healed my heart.

Look ma, no hands!