Drat. i’ve definitely lost my edge.
It might very-well be permanent. At best, it’s by far the longest creative dry-spell i have ever been through.
Usually, art is something i do because i feel intensely compelled to do it- there’s an urgency to it, a frantic necessity to be inhabited by whatever more intensely charged force is hovering in the air, knocking at my door and waiting to be let inside; to stir my soul from sleep with a newfound weightless energy that moves and inspires and carries-me up and out of myself, just for a little while…to cast aside and be momentarily free from the oppressive weight of Self and self-awareness; that need to uphold and remain bound within the self-defined contours of my personality- all those meticulously crafted, obsessively overworked layers of frumpy, ill-fitting, kinda sweaty and frankly just plain SILLY stage costumes i’ve sewn, stitched, hot-glue gunned and safety-pinned my poor soul into over the years.
…Oh what tangled webs we weave, when wee little girl-spiders first learn to lie- and begin to spin-away and spin into some femme-fatale disguise,
and only later- much too late, do we come to realize,
…that, in-fact we’re NOT the Spider,
we’re the motherf*king Fly.
[That was super Deep, i know. The profundity abounds…]
But i digress.
…that’s putting-it mildly, so let’s rewind a bit: Remember wayyy back- when i was talking about artistic inspiration? and my recent lack there-of? And the mysterious absence of that creative spirit, which, until recently, was usually right outside, standing at my front door? Ok, so getting-back to that:
… At the moment, however, not a one of these metaphorical muses has come a knockin’ for such a long time it’s just downright rude…they could’ve at-least sent a fruitbasket.
So, in the absence of inspiration, and without ever having actual technical training or talent, i’ve been spending the past few months making just really stupid art instead.
Specifically, i spend a lot of time wandering aimlessly around my backyard & stopping to stare at plants. (Picture, if you will, a lone, rabid nocturnal critter- oh say, an Opossum?- all dumbstruck and squinty-eyed beneath the unaccostumed horror of daylight. It’s not entirely inconceivable that this is exactly what i look-like at the moment. Unlikely? Yes. Nooo question. But Impossible? nope.)
What i’m actually doing is compulsively photographing the foliage. Foliage. Exclusively. That’s been the full-extent of my creative output over the past 4 months, give-or-take.
Sure, it all sounds fairly benign- nothing to get all worked-up & bent-outta-shape about. What’s so awful about a few not-so-unpleasant photos of bushes and leaves and pink-puckered petals?
They’re fine. They’re nice. a fine bunch of nice.
and of course, plants ARE genuinely lovely, and i love flowers, and everything about nature is almost unbelievable when you’re really looking, because it really is magic- the Golden Spiral, the Fibonacci sequence, all of Sacred Geometry, even fractals can get me all teary-eyed. It reminds me that there truly is something greater out there- Okay, Whoa. Hold-up. Egad.
[ i realize this is rather abrupt, but this situation calls-for swift and immediate action, in-which i simply must put-a-stop to this unexpected train of tangential runaway thought, for all our sakes. Trust-me, things were beginning to unravel…]
Point is, compulsively taking photos of sad stupid flowers feels somewhat troublesome. Disconcerting. Nervous-making. Typically, whenever my art starts to err on the side of Hallmark-card cheesy, it isn’t long before i find myself scraping the bottom of my creative wellspring, scooping out the watery dregs of uninspired muckamuck.
Then i sigh the confusing sigh of an insatiably melodramatic person who, also, quite frequently gets very, very depressed- the kind of “Depresssed” that trumps all my melodrama and simply cannot muster the will to wonder “what oh-so sad song would be playing in the background right now, as i weep poetically into a bowl of cereal? Bright Eyes? Please, no more Bright Eyes…
Other questions My melodramatically depressed self would like to know, but my genuinely/scarily depressed-self is too suffocated by apathy to care about:
Is my face framed cinematically, illuminated by the ambient glow of deceptively flattering lighting?
…As i gaze forelornly out the rain-kissed window of this moving train car…as we flee the pandemonious chaos of war-torn London?
Most importantly, do i think i could i pass for a slightly mousier version of Kirsten Dunst in ‘Melancholia’? If not, why not? try harder. You’re just being lazy, you little Sloth-like thing you.”
I think i had a point, at first. Something about taking pictures of flowers. Well, this is what i wrote, before i inserted that tangent in the middle. Pardon this-here graceless non-sequiter…
My fits of flora-photography always portend an imminent fall from the safety of my inverted gaze- my mind’s inner infinity where as a child my soul built me a kingdom. When i can’t access that wellspring of imagination fueled inspiration, i tend to get a little desperate. Ideas that have been wrung-out & beaten to death & overused to the point where their only place is scrawled across posters & calenders displayed on the walls of unemployment centers, inside hallmark cards, and quoted in self-help books.
Flowers= life, beauty, growth.
Ergo, Dead flowers= irony.
Irony= a Hipster’s air-quote definition of “deep & meaningful.”
So here you have it: the death of me as maybe-one-day becoming an artist. Life is like a dying flower…so fleeting. So beautifully finite, this whole world of perpetually fading ephemera. Et-cetera. Anyway. This was an epically tangential introduction to what amounts to like 4 photos total.
Here: some photos, of flowers, in poetically contraposto decay, taken by me, from the nadir of inspiration.
Note: The entirety of this post is a testament to my tendency to be a wee melodramatic, at times.
Thank you for reading this, oh kind & patient stranger.
Also, Sorry if this was weird.
Thankyou i’mSorry TheEnd :)