Artist, In Plain Sight, 9-5.
How do you find art where there is none? You create it.
Where does it come from? Inside.
I used to be inspired by the depth of a shadow, the curve of a form, the flow of a fabric, the wrinkle of weathered skin, the narrative of blacks, blues & scar silver.
I used to compose a painting in my head, infuse meaning through juxtaposition, imply motion through gestured lines. I used to sit silently for hours with mellow neo-soul music bumping through my laptop speakers, steady keeping the rhythm of the ebbs and flows of paint and creativity.
While these days I zone out to the window just outside my office walls, daydream of huge canvasses and industrial easels, studio space and thick, heavy body paints, those days I used to simply zone into that world.
How do you find art where there is none? You create it.
Where does it come from? Inside.
I stop and wait for inspiration. Get real silent and hope it speaks a language I can understand. Lets me capture it and move through me- a current conducted by otherworldly forces-
This can’t be me.
I am but a vessel to this brilliance, humbled by the act of expression, moved by it-
Driven by it.
Just keep driving by it, until somehow it impels me to leave my problems at the door, to sit, stand, squat or lay down- long as I stay for a while.
This whisper is my religion. This creative ground is gessoed white and pure- I leave my shoes to walk among it and it is at that altar that I emit the toxins that lace me up tightly.
Toxins that tie my hands, I do little to fight.
I used to know restless and channel it, anxious and manage it through art therapy. There was just me and it, still my best relationship to date.
Dates that lasted for hours, no selfish men, but givers of meditative moments. Moments of ablution. Wiped clean by warm, rich colors, charcoal and graphite insidiously spreading across olive toned skin.
Healed by these moments.
Revealed through these moments.
Completely letting go of my superficial self without willing myself to do so.
Self-abandonment that transcends to something larger than us.
How do you find art where there is none? You create it.
Where does it come from? Inside.
Where do you hide this inspiration? The key to this secret world? If not deep within the depths of one’s twisted complexities and over-thinking. Clever to hide it in plain sight.
I don’t feel stupid that I hadn’t found it sooner, in its obvious location, but rather relieved.
Once again, You’ve chosen me. You didn’t have to it, but You did.
I don’t want to stick out (fame can be for those who need it), nor do I want to recede to the antisocial shallows of seclusion, where no relatable art can be made.
Hide me in plain sight.
Whisper inspiration during a mundane work day.
Penetrate my thoughts with something more substantial; less watercolor wash, more heavy matte.
Remember me, even when I’ve all but forgotten You to the seemingly non-artistic stressfulness that fills my busy days.
Calm me down, and work me up if You wish. I have experienced no better feeling than this.
Art is love. Inspiration is restoration for the self I somehow lose to daunting tasks.
Art is the answer to the question you don’t know to ask.
How do you find art where there is none? You create it.
Where does it come from? Inside.
Put me in the last place I would think to hide-
In plain sight, 9-5.
