a True Artist is Truly Crap

My eyes still aloof, I tap the icon on my phone.  It is the little blue F that is so automatic.
I have a hunch someday I will have to delete this icon.

I snuggle my legs up underneath me and stare into the too-bright screen.

The sun is rising outside my window, and I feel guilty ignoring nature's flourish.
However, not guilty enough...

I scroll through the selfies and hysterical political articles.
I skip the mascara promo and the update about that guy whose dog was shot by the cops.
He didn't take the settlement.  Of course he didn't take the settlement.
Someone graduated from drug court and there's another pic of the amazing dinner you just made.
Why...why do I do this?
Then an artists' interview catches my eye.  She is giving very important advice to young creative types.
I had better watch the video, but first I'll scroll down and see if there's anything better...nope...video it is.

So, the artist gives this monologue of what it means to be a True Artist.
Then she makes the distinction between an Artist and a Great Artist.
If you are an Artist, then you must create, or you die.
It is like breathing.  You must do it, or you cease to exist.
A Great Artist is willing to fail.  They are willing to go to an undefined place and explore it.
She speaks with great intent and a thickness in her voice, as if she is enticing a lover.

I used to buy this shit.  The mysticism of the Artist.
When I was in college, it had so much power over me that I sometimes couldn't paint.
I would walk the campus and distinguish my pursuit from other majors.
Surely the medical, legal, and business people did not ache as I did.
I mean, just look at our dilapidated, romantic Art building.  The paint-splattered cement floors a mural, a testament to our suffering.
I wanted to be the Real Thing so bad.  I wanted my professors to see it.
I dressed the part.  I wore the jeans that doubled as a rag for my palette knife.
I stayed late in the studio.
I poured over image searches for hours seeking the conglomerate of my visual message to the world.
I got a scholarship.  I attended art shows.  I wrote papers.  I formed opinions.

Thank God school ended.

A painting I facilitated last year.
It is painted by residents of a local homeless shelter.
It hangs in their entryway

Yes, I did learn a lot about the Art World.
I learned that it can be as disingenuous or adversely, just as sincere as any other culture.
My final paper compared the Art Gallery Scene to the Fashion Industry.
My point:  It is all a fabrication.
As is this woman's argument of the True or Great Artist.
There is no such thing.
I traveled to Paris.  I saw the Van Goghs the Soutines the Monets the Talouse LaTrecs.
I saw paintings - made by people - simple.
And that is all an artist is:  A person who makes paintings, sculptures, plays, dances, literature, music and movies.

2013 - excerpts from my diary in a collage donated
to a local treatment center.

It is a privilege to make Art.  It means you are allowed to concern your mind with something other than basic survival.  Sometimes I do not have this privilege.

Does that mean that I am not truly an Artist?  If I must concern myself with going to work and shuttling my kids around in the mini-van am I less of an Artist?  At what point does it become a title I can no longer claim?
Am I only Great if I submerge into obsessive creation?  At what cost does one become Great within this system?

I believe an artist is someone who makes art.  I have gone for months without creating anything and my mind goes to sleep.  My soul feels dry and thirsty.  When I write or paint...things click faster.  I feel less scattered. I endeavor to be honest.  I ask questions.  I loose track of time.
However this does not make me great.  And my life would not be more meaningful if I devoted all energy to this pursuit.  If I did not have a family, friends, a job, a husband, a body with never-ending physical needs...then I would have nothing to say. I believe art is about people, and it is to be shared with people.

Today my art says,
         "I care.  I care enough to pay attention and tell the story.  I care about the colors, the words, the events, and the emotions.  I care about the underside where fear lies.  I care enough to expose all of it."

Rocks painted with my kids - this one is courtesy of Sophie.

Not Sick

I find myself yearning...still...to be just a little bit sick.
Barely queasy enough to slow me down, and lessen my responsibility.
I recently had strep throat and it tickled my itch to check-out.
Because I was sick, I couldn't eat much, so I didn't have my usual energy.
Without the full force of mind and body, I was content to coast.
It felt like riding a bike down a slight decline.  I could pedal if I wanted, but I didn't have to.
I could stay home under the guise that I was resting.
I dropped a couple pounds, and my waist felt wispy.  My muscles went into hibernation, demanding nothing.
Will I ever not relish this feeling of the empty belly?
Will it always arouse my senses as the smell of cigarette smoke and red wine?

Now my Awakened Soul is the stronger arm.
It slams down my Urge to Escape and forces her head up to see Vast Possibility.
She doesn't want to.  For a long time, I called her Lydia.  This whispering vixen who would lull me to sleep.
Now I know, she is not separate from me.  She is the part of me who holds back.  I do not need to cut her off.  I need to pull her in.  Rock her in a chair until she is ready to join the world. For hers is also the sensitive heart.  She is the one who is afraid to be hurt, afraid to fail, and afraid to loose things.
I smooth her hair and whisper the truth:

Yes the world is scary.  You will get hurt.  You will fail.  Things will unfold differently than you intend. People will leave.  They will die.  You have limited ability.  All of these truths are part of being human. It is ok to be this way...to be human.  It is the most beautiful experience available to you.  

When I am awake and the truth is zinging, I cannot hold back.
It makes no sense to be sick.
I realize it is a privilege to be an artist, a writer, a mother, a sober alcoholic.
If I believe that my spot could be filled by anyone willing to do the work, then I want to be the one to fill my own shoes.
If I don't teach, someone else will.
If I don't paint, someone else will.
If I don't write, someone else will.
And if I am not sober, the tide of recovery will continue to swell with those who are grateful for a 2nd chance.
The ones who are simply happy to wake up Not Sick.
Remember that?...when waking up without a hangover to watch the sunrise was enough.

But I guess I just get tired sometimes.
The trail feels monotonous and I question whether I am actually going anywhere.
In a way I am not.  I am not going anywhere.  That is not even the point.
The point, as I can understand it, is to connect with my fellow travelers.
It is to walk with them, share meals with them, share stories, and strength.
The point is to shed my illusions so I can give what I have to give.
But those illusions - I like them.  They shut out the fact that I don't know where the trail ends.