Skip to main content

An Artists' Well

     As many of you know, I started the year off with a fresh notebook I intended to fill up with drawings on a daily basis until it was full. It's a simple sketch pad with 70 pages in it and I thought I could easily do a doodle a day as I am often sketching one thing or another. And it was simple, for the first few days, perhaps even into the first few weeks. Then I felt something I had not experience before--a dry well.
     It wasn't that my imagination was empty, in fact it daily over flows with ideas and visuals, but my drive, my energy to give them an outlet, started running low. There were many days I only had an hour to get a sketch in and, with so much going on in my life as it was, I felt like I was just dropping little random lines with very little emotion behind them just to say I had done it. Pride is an awful creature that can push you forward when your feet can barely hold you.
     It got to the point I had to evaluate what I was doing, and the type of artist I am, to understand why such a simple task felt so much more.
     In the end, it became clear that the issue wasn't necessarily my imagination, or my limited time--it was my desire, my passion and ultimately the type of artist I had molded myself into.
     I am a person who bottles things up.
     I wait until my skin is crawling, my hands are itching and my mind is racing with inspiration before I finally funnel the chaos down into one or more outlets. Can I draw everyday? Yes. Do I desire to? Sometimes. But I am a spontaneous whirlwind of creativity.
     I am disciplined when I am in the element of bringing something to life, but I never force that spark of imagination into existence until I am in need of releasing it. I don't sit down and draw or write daily. Often times, the best way for me to let my imagination have a release is to sit and listen to music or play a video game where my mind can wander.
     I like to cook.
     I like to stew.
     It's just who I am.
     It's been a valuable exploration into my craft, and into myself, in doing the daily drawings. I started on January 1st and completed my last, spent and withdrawn, on March 4th. A part of me is disappointed I didn't even make it 70 days. But the lessons I learned, the frustrations, the concerns and the successes I had, taught me a lot about An Artists' Well.
     For those who can be inspired, who have the hours of free time, who have mastered a compromise in discipline and passion to draw or paint or write daily, I salute you--you truly are unique creatures with driven muses.
     But to the others like me, who accept that their needs must reach a boiling point before they can be set free, I say let us continue forward. Let our passions drive us without drought--feed and nourish our souls at our whim and let us be challenged with lessons we can take to heart to help us embrace who we are.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Short Story S:1 P:9 - Eternal Youth - Part Two

Previously * [Face to face again, the dark woman reached out and gently clasped her warm fingers around her jaw, forcing their eyes to meet. She watched as Honeysuckle colors sparked in amber depths with an energy that shivered across her skin before the woman simply replied, “Indeed.”] The rippling pools ebbed and flowed with the tension building between them, their voices mute as her tender fingers released their hold on her jaw and slowly trailed kinetic paths down her neck to pause at her exposed collarbone before retreating back into her dark cloak. The departure tugged a physical withdrawal from the depths of her spine and she bit her soft pink lips to suppress the whimper that rose up her throat. “What do you desire here that you could not find anywhere else? Besides the obvious, of course,” the older woman asked, her timbered voice an octave deeper and she felt the humming in her veins thrill at the notion she was not alone in this tug of war. “To answer your call...

Short Story S: 3 Post: 4 - "They Danced"

They danced. In the haunting stillness of the abandoned house, they twirled, dipped, swayed and caressed like time had forgotten them. Shades of red, black and amber skin flickered between ethereal blue flames while soft--echoing music guided their whispering footsteps throughout the darkened house, filling the shadows that hid from the swelling moon consuming the skyline out broken window panes with whispers of ‘forever my love’ and ‘until our souls are born again’ . They danced. Their sunken eyes boring into each other with burning looks of longing, their ashen hearts thrumming with memories of stolen moments from a lifetime ago, and their transparent fingers gripping, tugging and digging into withered flesh and aging cloth with desperation as they moved like an endless foray. They knew not the state of their decay, their visions seared in a loop of enduring youthful ignorance that swung them like a pendulum between the living and the dead. For him...

Short Story S:2 P: 15 - "Between Shore and Sea"

     The storm raged on around them, encouraging rolling waves to thrash about as if they were dancing to the torrent of emotions spilling across the distance Between Shore and Sea . Words whipped and echoed like arrows across the tides, inflaming sun tanned cheeks and pale skin with blood red passion.      It was to have been a simple affair--no heart and all body.      But as the being had come ashore in the dead of night what felt like a lifetime ago--and settled its charcoal eyes on a beauty carved from mortal flesh and bone watching the stars in wonder--it had felt a daunting pull that spoke of white hot heat and doom.      From that moment forward they had spun a web of Emerald Longing and Golden Wonder around themselves as their bodies twined again and again. By dawn on that very first morning they were unable to draw themselves apart, so they had stayed cocooned, nestled in a world of damp wood, soft sheets and the...