An open letter to all the sensitive artist types

  

  Hello there. I am one of you and we are legion.  Our lot is a deep one, a gutsy one for sure. We are a strange group with a yearning desire to be our unique selves in this plastic preconceived prefabricated world.  It is we who come up with the ideas that others consume.

I know most of us are compelled to do this, this whatever we do that we deem art. And this compulsion runs deep, at least for me. For so many years I deprived myself of artistic endeavors, never making the time for it… thinking it frivolous, unnecessary…calling it a stupid dream and retreating back into the doldrums.

The voice never dies completely…this need to create, to share oneself. That voice grew from a whisper to a scream. I had to listen. The floodgates opened and they haven’t closed yet.  It’s a compulsion, a need like air to breathe.  Creative people know what I mean by this.  Sometimes I think living the life of someone a bit more “typical” would be simpler and easier. Less painful perhaps? At times the thought is tempting but in the end I wouldn’t want to live without this colorfully crazy creative streak.

Endless forms most beautiful

Art comes in endless forms.  I see it in everyday life from the musician and the writer to the carpenter, computer programmer, physicist, or cook. It is the soul of the person creating it that makes it beautiful. In my mind the only requirement for art to be art is that it contains a tiny drop of essence of the artist. If it’s honest and true that is what’s important. It is the stuff of daydreams and the inner workings of the soul that makes it memorable and remarkable.

Good art entertains, it amuses. It is whimsical and fun.

Great art makes you feel. Sometimes quite deeply and your life is forever changed by it.

The Starry Night, June 1889, The Museum of Mod...

Image via Wikipedia

Starry Starry Night

A few years back I had the pleasure of seeing live and in color several major works by some of my favorite Impressionists, including the great Vincent Van Gogh.  It was the brushstrokes that did it. I could see the mind of the master at work…the one who takes command of the brush and creates a universe with it.  There is a force to the artist.  The gutsy part.  Vincent had it all right, we artists need that;  the show off….the ham. The part that is compelled to share that which we have created.  Even shy ones like me have that side… but there is also the other side; the sensitive one.   Vincent had that in spades. He poured out his heart onto the canvas with wild abandon.  I believe that creativity lies in that deep soulful side. I have that side…the indigo to my strawberry. It was that side that started to cry in the middle of the exhibit. I welled up and couldn’t stop. I couldn’t even see the art at that point but the images from that day will forever be etched in my memory.

What I am trying to say

This piece is entitled: An open letter to all sensitive artist types and it is. However,  I do have one certain artist in mind when I write this and to that person I say…..

It is the artists that stick their neck out. It takes courage to put your work in front of others. Your heart is on a plate for others to dissect and chew up. Humans are natural judges and it’s a hard dose to swallow when you are on the receiving end of a disinterested audience.  What is the purpose of art if it is not shared?  And appreciated.

It takes courage to pursue a dream and awfully thick skin.  Unfortunately most of us artistic types are sensitive and all the courage in the world doesn’t stop hurt feelings.  Some people are jerks and will knock anyone down who dares to dream. But don’t stop. Don’t ever stop dreaming. Because once in a while dreams do come true.  Don’t let a few sour grapes spoil a fantastic bottle of wine.

But don’t just listen to me:

A work of art is the unique result of a unique temperament.  Its beauty comes from the fact that the author is what he is.  It has nothing to do with the fact that the other people want what they want.  Indeed, the moment an artist takes notice of what other people want, and tries to supply the demand, he ceases to be an artist….”

**Oscar Wilde**

Have a wildly creative day

Strawberryindigo.

 

Dream a little dream

..And so I am supposed to be writing short stories, Trippy profound little gems with twists and turns that would set the world on fire.   I given myself the summer to write these stories. I’ve written one story so far.  

I will confess right now that I am a chronic starter.  I have a million interests and I’ve started a million projects and rarely finished any.  All those tiny pieces of paper  come to mind….

I haven’t accomplished much in life by way of a career.  I’ve devoted seventeen years of my life to raising two kids, who will be almost grown and now I feel that its time for me to pursue my dreams.  All of them.

This scares the hell out of me.  I know to follow a dream one must take a chance and get out into the world.  I have to stop hiding. And so here I am jumping in.  Out of the shadows and into the light. 

I thought very long and hard about showing my picture on this blog.  It is so unlike me, its unreal.  That picture in itself is rare.  I’m the kind of person who prefers to be behind the camera, not in front. 

  To be honest to myself and whoever might read this, I can’t say that I need to stop hiding from life, and hide behind something I am not.  It might be a stupid thing to do. I might regret it.  I don’t know.  But for now the picture of the real me remains for all the poor unfortunates to see who happen to run across it.

little pieces of paper

 

   

 

 

  Tiny pieces of paper, probably tens of thousands of them, haunt my memory.  Some haunt boxes in the basement, others are in a file beside the bed or scattered all over the house, most are lost with the passage of time.  Every one of them are mine.  Pieces of paper, some are typewritten, most are not.  Most are written with a frenzied scrawl only I can read,  somewhat.

     They are my ideas, my stories, my hopes, dreams and crazy creative musings. I have been writing them down since my weak little grip barely gripped a pencil at age four. 

     No matter what life through at me and no matter how life changed and I changed.  One constant remained. I wrote. 

I wrote as my heart was breaking and  I wrote as my soul was soaring.  Writing was my release.  I could tell everything to those blank pages.  Everything I couldn’t tell others. 

And time passes, and I realise that it gets cold and lonely and dark in the shadows. I can’t keep hiding and scribbling on bits of paper.