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I am an artist - struggling to find my voice. I have bursts of creativity but they stir up my mind to the point that I cannot get anything else done. The idea comes; it cooks around in my brain, it simmers and boils. It takes concentration; removing oneself from the common distractions of the day...like work, the tv, the computer, family members, even the dogs. Who has the energy to be creative? If they say you actually lose years of your life through lack of sleep, artists must be the shortest lived species on earth. Ideas and creativity do not equal sleep!!!!!
I know I must write; but about what??? I've struggled to give birth to poems and books. I've strained to form the perfect words to covey my thoughts and feelings. I've lived with my words swirling and whirling around in my head until I'm dizzy and senseless yet still wondering - who will even read it?
I've written about this awful condition - the voiceless artist. It reminds me of the words of the song by Anna Nalick, Breathe; "Two a.m. and I'm still awake writing this song, if I get it all down on paper, it's no longer inside of me, threatening the life it belongs to. And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud, and I know that you'll use them however you want to." What an awful condition in which to live!
How do I handle this misery - default to numbness. This is a common theme in my life; a defense that has caused me great disparagement and has totally kept me from being the person (artist) that I truly am. I need to break these chains. To revert to numbness preserves the sanity I need to sleep and get to work every day. It allows me to keep up with the cooking and the dishes and the laundry.... but to what real end? Here is my sacrifice to creativity; an ode to the voiceless artist.... What remains unvoiced in your life?
My children are artists
I admire their abandonment of self, their ability to express themselves; hey - their ability to even define what it is they want to express
They are far away living dreams that I can only imagine - defining their worlds through their art; what unspeakable joy and riches!
In their room is a plastic box full of pens and pencils; tools of an artist
They speak to me of all of the unrealized, pent-up canvases in my mind
It is such a privilege to give birth to an artist
It is an agony to hold the very same desires within myself, afraid to unleash them on the world
In their box is a quilter's marker; a tribute to the one art I have been able to unleash - why is this the only one?
Tonight I carefully picked through this box of tools; selecting the colored pencils that spoke to me
Tonight I unwrapped a canvas that I have kept, sitting ready for so long on my unused easel......
And it remains white - dust covered - unused - unspoken - unexpressed
Where does an artist find his voice? Where is inspiration? Where is courage to let loose what churns inside?
My children are artists - why can I not say the same for myself?
** photo by Brian Jones