Art is one Fickle Mistress

In college we were challenged to do a Pecha Kucha presentation as a part of our submission. I do not remember the core stimulating concept, but I suppose it was about where we came from, what we are, what we wanted to pursue.

My very first slide was, “Art is not my calling.” I still remember it.

I was going through a flare up, my chest was burning. I was supposed to be the first person to present, but it hurt too much and I didn’t have the courage to actually say this to my lecturer. Instead, exchanged my piece of paper with someone else who was closer to the last number than the first. The pain just kept getting worse.

Stuffing all of it into a deep corner in my soul, walked on there and told these people how I knew in my bones that art wasn’t my calling. That my ambition ranged higher than my ability. Of course, didn’t have the courage then to state that I was a non-able bodied person. I didn’t even want to admit that I was non-able bodied in any way, shape or form. That pain came easier to me than the will to get through the pain, to aspire, inspire, make, create. It hurt to even want to aspire, create. It killed me. And not to mention, my art ran from me when I was pain.

Now when I look back I wonder if my desire to leave the creating of art behind was because I was terrified of what art sought as a price.

Art comes from some unknown, non ventured depth in a soul. In the beginning it’s just a battle with our own body, outlast the exhaustion, force finesse and elegance. Work, work, work, practice, practice, practice. It’s not only talent, it is a want, a need for it.

Then it becomes something more, with soul and meaning that transcends just technique. That requires… more. It requires you, your experience, emotions, feelings, passions. It needs you.

There is a belief that art requires pain, or as Ocean Vuong is asked in his book ‘On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous,’ “does art require destruction?” He answers with a no, hoping, praying that he will one day believe it.

The truth is, art, meaningful art, comes from pain, anger, grief, fury. It comes when we have no where to turn to but the scrap piece of canvas, or paper. It forces into our very being when we have nothing but our bleeding souls in our hands. It is a mess, and we try to create something that only a few will resonate with. Art has an audience. Every single piece of art has an audience. It is less curated, more of a fluke. And, it is always gloriously overwhelming.

My writing comes from a place of pain, fear, anger, exhaustion. My art comes from a place of numbness, ruthless objectivity. I settle better in pain than numbness.

My art runs from me when I am in pain. My writing rushes back when I am bleeding.

I hate both of them, but I love both of them. The mistress is fickle, temperamental, she comes and goes when she pleases. It’s frustrating. I want to paint, to create, but I am in too much pain. She hates my pain, the ways in which I steep myself in it to learn, to grow, to separate. She embraces my vulnerability, but hates my anger. She shields me, but also pokes holes in the same shield for that is the best way to invite her back in. She feasts on pain, nourishes herself, gives me the gift of numbness in return.

That is, however, rare. She doesn’t like pain as much as we tell ourselves she does. She likes neutrality more. A steady force she can lean on, create with.

She is one capriciously fickle mistress that terrifies me. Well, not entirely. She is me, and I am her. Well, I am a small fraction of her, whereas she is the whole of me. She leaves me, I become nothing.

At least I was made to believe so. I am, however, reliant on her grace and generosity, her flippant interests. Her child like curiosities, god like mecuriality. I do like her. Just wish she took less from me, came to me a little easier, lighter.