A Burst Here, A Burst There

Like I stated in my first post. I get bursts of inspiration, of energy, of desire and a WANT. A want to get my hands on something, to express. It's sustaining that burst, that is my real challenge. I made this collage a while ago. I typed and pasted the lyrics, "you belong among the wildflowers..." and then "you belong somewhere you feel free..." Good ol' Tom Petty for ya.

I love those lyrics. I have put towards the bottom a girl spinning. She looks utterly free. The sun is shining, the grass flowing. It's a perfect representation of how I'd like to be all the time. In any given situation. I think inspiration wouldn't need to be mustered up, it would just exist, all around me. All I'd have to do is tap into it. I, of course, got most of these images from Urban Outfitters catalogues and Anthropologie ads. Once again, using other people's work to help aid my own. I love their ads. So clever and so rich with texture and palpable color pallets. I'm a big fan... needless to say.

There's a flame, grass, flowers, trees, an open inviting widow, clouds, birds and the sign Come In We're Open. I definitely let Dharma out with this one. I think this whole collage does in fact represent the freedom that I am working towards. The freedom of my art. There's a large ominous beetle at the very top, forewarning me of times to come. And the Come In We're Open sign is sort of an invitation, saying, "Yes, I'm open to whatever comes," 24/7, baby.

A Playdate With Dharma

The second Post and All Those After...

Right smack dab in the middle of a town's expansion project, lies a farm. A neon super CVS on one side and a noisy freeway on the other. But this farm, when looked at completely separate from the chaos that surrounds it, seems untouched, unscathed. As if in a time capsule, this farm clings to it's charm, quaint, and simple life.

There's a rosebush, in particular, in full bloom. The bright velvet red petals can be seen from the road going 50 miles per hour. They are astounding. Behind that rosebush, green grass grows, golden leaves fall from the mammoth tree above.

Chickens and cows cluck and graze, seemingly unaware of the construction rustling about them. The dainty sounds of the cattle chewing, the sticks cracking under the hen's feet would surly seem impossible to hear over the bulldozer's ferocious roar.

But some how, some way, this farm invites you in, and you can hear.... a bee buzzing, a leaf brushing up against her neighbor, the grass pushing its way up towards the sunshine.

The First Post, the First Step

I'm always in a rush. I am, about most things art related. And about most things in general. I want that instant gratification at times. Or a result that I like straightaway, because according to some part of me, I don't have the time or I don't want to make the time to learn, or to mull it over, or to create. For example, with oil painting. I can't stand it because it takes too long. Layer after layer and the drying process, are you kidding me?! So I don't finish anything. Or with my writing. My mind is going a mile a minute and my pen can hardly keep up. Thus the missed words, extra letters and atrocious handwriting.

Taking the time to create might mean to me a number of things. It might mean that inspiration is fleeting. And if it comes I "gotta do it in one sitting" because it would be impossible to be found again, brought back up to the same intensity... over and over. It could mean that I might really put my heart and soul into something and be so proud of it, only to receive "constructive criticism" and have my heart torn apart. It could mean that the time it takes me to complete a painting, a story, to pick up that guitar and learn, takes me away from my family, my baby mostly. Creativity makes a mess I don't want to clean up, doors that I don't want open, and awakens a part inside of me that is hidden so deep, it's painful pulling her out. Creation means letting that "artist" out that I've worked so hard at putting away. Then pretending I'm artistic or merely dabbling in things without fully being apart, so as not to get hurt by the end result; the painting, the book, the song. Or crushed. Or thought wonderful even... Pretending means my heart can still be guarded, my heart really isn't in it. My heart wants to be, but no, too painful. So rather truly letting my artist out, I put her away, bring out a phony one and then all is well. The phony one is detached. The phony one receives criticism and says, "Oh no bother. I didn't really put that much into it anyhow..." But my artist. My artist. I've been such a poser all these years. Such a fake. Living through artists of the past or the artists in my family, pretending to be one of them, pretending to talk like them, "be into the same things" as them, force myself to. When it's all an act.

Oh I feel her in there. I feel my heart ache as she whispers in my ear "let me out." She presses on my ribcage from the inside out. My genuine, my true, my real artist. My Dharma, as my father-in-law dubs me. Dharma, honey, I'm letting you out. I promise you I will not stop working until you are free to express, free to create, and you and I are one again, like we were when I was a child.