"But I'm not an artist."
You sure about that?
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Grief and heartbreak are the greatest gifts to art.
Driving back from the post office this morning, I caught the tail end of a DJ’s monologue about the Foo Fighters’ new drummer. They are not a band I follow — “Times Like These” is the only song I love from their vast catalogue — yet the loss of two members/friends in two bands (Nirvana and FF) in Dave G’s 30+ year career had me wonder whether he’d fold FF.
Which made think out loud about art and artists. It didn’t surprise me that Dave will continue but even if he chose to remain in private grief, I bet he’d still create. And create. And create.
Grief is the lifeblood of art. Yes, happiness certainly has its place — but grief and heartbreak are the greatest gifts to art, even if they are a distant memory. I call it perseverating over a piece of sand when heartbreak and unanswered questions gnaw at an artist.
Yes, but I don’t paint or write or draw, you may counter. I’m not an artist.
We’ve all had our heart smashed if we exist on Earth. It’s what we do AFTER the event that makes us an artist.
An artist is someone who creates. Every time you have a thought, you create. I want a sweet cup of coffee with almond milk. You then create the perfect cup. Throughout your day, you create over and over.
An artist is someone who observes their environment and allows it to enrich their soul.
Yesterday, I dropped a piece of food onto the ground by the porch, then watched as several sizes of ants came to investigate. Within 5 minutes, there were swarms of ants discussing how to take apart this food and transport it into their vast underground colony. Not only did they create a moving barrier to prevent the carpenter ants from stealing it or eating them — though a few were carried off; no honor among thieves — they gathered in two circles and began to dismantle from top to bottom. More ants continued to join the project until it was complete and surprisingly, the fire ants couldn’t be bothered.
Creation exists in and around us. An artist captures as many moments as possible — but that doesn’t mean it has to translate into a physical product to monetize. It’s allowing your vision to include all of creation.
Some may have just grabbed ant killer spray (please don’t — use cayenne pepper or peppermint oil if necessary) and missed the moving story under their eyes. How small a world, if so.
An artist leans into pain or the vast unknown, rather than avoid.
You get to imagine what ARTIST means to you. Reframe the image. Reclaim the word!
“Artist” may conjure up images such as painter, writer, musician, etc. Those are a few expressions but not the only way to be an artist. It’s similar to the notion that single women should be partnered because previous generations could only imagine women safe and secure in a marriage (we were considered valuable property, after all).
Time to add a new vision. Time to offer various visions to future generations. Time for reframe. Time to create.
Time to say, This is MY DESTINY. It belongs to no one but me!
“But I don’t write every day. I’m not a writer.”
Whether you write every day — or once a year — you get to decide whether you are a writer. Publishing a book is great after the ordeal of writing it — I’ve published several — but when I wrote an essay in 2nd grade about how much I loved my cat, I didn’t think, I should monetize this. I need to hire an editor. This is a really great story. My teacher likes it, so I better find an agent. How can I create more content with this?
It was enough that I wrote how much I loved my cat Morris with his broken nose — and that my teacher wrote “This is a very nice story.” I still carry that essay with me.
I also had a grad school professor write on a paper that I didn’t know a thing about writing, so I stopped believing that I’d publish a book and quit the program. If I still took her words to heart today, I never would have written books. I would have thought, She’s right. Who’s going to listen to me? It’s all been said before. My writing sucks. I mean, no one is going to publish this crap.
Sure, I wrote in a journal then, long letters to friends, an early version of e-zines, essays, music compositions and fragments of early books. That wasn’t writing. I mean, I didn’t write every day. I wasn’t published, so that meant I wasn’t a real writer because only REAL WRITERS GET PUBLISHED.
What changed?
I met my soulmate.
I needed a Muse to open the portals of my talent.
I met my soulmate and she changed my life. I had a destiny as a writer — she knew it on a subconscious level — and arrived from the opposite coast to say, I’m going to love you — and break your heart like no one else.
{Don’t worry. I played fair. I loved her back, changed her life and broke her heart in equal measure.}
She became my Muse. It always perplexed her as to why — but the emotions she evoked brought forth some of my greatest art (so far). In fact, my writing is one long conversation to her — and I’m certain, though we have not spoken for years — that she will read this soon after I hit publish.
It’s just how we roll. Separate humans; telepathic connection. I use the pain, unanswered questions and joy from that connection to create. I offshoot to other aspects of my existence -- documented in my memoirs — to explore ways that people and beliefs have shaped my understanding of life on Earth.
So in some ways, they all act as my muse, yet I have one Muse who is in the shape of my soulmate, who reflects an even greater Muse.
We all have a Muse. You just have to find that Muse. Maybe the child you created is one. Maybe your old Sunday school teacher is another. Find the story. Find the pain that has yet to resolve. Find the person who made a mark on your life — and that doesn’t meant only through heartbreak. It could have been through one sentence that turned on the switch. Or the glance that made you realize you were gay. Or the one scene from that one roadside stand full of handwoven carpets that will be the first line of your screenplay or music video.
Notice, absorb — > create. Even if you don’t make a cent. Even if you never publish a book. You are STILL A WRITER. Even if you don’t have a social media account, an agent or a “following” (we’re all cult leaders these days). Even if you die an unknown artist whose genius will be discovered hundreds of years later.