Wednesday, January 13, 2010
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Who Would I Be Without My Art?
Who Would I Be Without My Art?
The message I continue to get is that art is worth living for and an artist should do everything possible to continue creating and growing. There is a conflict with existing as an artist when your everyday life does not feed creativity. Sure there are lines people say or words that summon the inner writer. There are events that take place and ignite our anger and passion for change. We fall in and out of love and passionately feel like every moment of emotion deserves documentation. We hear notes in our head and convince the world it is music then watch as backs arch, feet stomp, and heads bob unwillingly. There are also times when nothing feels poetic or worth documenting. It is just something to survive and put in the past even with the knowledge that it is worth a testimony. Artists are often dreamers and we want to maintain comfortable lifestyles off of our dreams. That sounds absurd when voiced; we want to maintain comfortable lifestyles off of our dreams.
I often wonder who I would be if I did not have my art. What would happen if I did not want to mimic the visions and sound of scratching paintbrushes that fill my head? If I never introduced the words that sound beautiful in my mind to paper and confined the freedom I experience under the title of a poem, story, or essay. How does it look when we walk by colors and shapes or see the different shades that define a person’s face and feel like it is common enough that I am justified in taking them for granted? Is it possible to hear music and not realize how the energy changed, speech takes on its rhythm, perspective becomes parallel enough to call it my own?
I am told that it is during prayer when people feel closest to god. I wonder if you have to be on your knees bowing before a cross, a sun, or clay molded into a representative of whom we believe to be our God to actually pray. I wonder if the times in my car hoping my voice moves past my windshield or while I am in the bathroom during the chaos of my day asking God to remind me that my purpose is greater than my circumstance; I wonder if those times count too. When I was younger my great grandmother would always tell me how God doesn’t give us more to carry than we can bear. So often I ask myself why I am carrying so much more than my art.
The time when I feel closest to God is when I am painting and my mind has unraveled enough through the conversations I have with it that I can hear the paintbrush pressing colors into the canvas. I feel closest to god when my hand curves with letters that fall like dominoes onto lines and construct their own melody. It is during these times that I am not present in this experience called reality because nothing is intentional. I am communicating with something greater and allowing it to guide my hands while I submit because I trust that is for a greater purpose. The purpose often remains a mystery but I have to trust that all will be revealed in time.
Who would I be without my art? I never explore this with enough depth. It is scary to go into that place where this love, the one I truly never want to overcome, could not exist. Thoughts of its importance overshadow thoughts of its absence and I rebel with a ferocious search for ways to forget that this question tried to invade my dreams. People keep telling me not to quit because there are times when I want to make my paintings and writing a secret again. There are times when I want it to be less vulnerable and open to interpretation. There are also times, more than not, when I love sharing what comes through me and being an artist is the one thing I would never sacrifice. Hearing how a painting or poem pulls emotions to the surface and inspires another to mimic their sounds and visions reminds me that reality really gets more credit than it often deserves.
©Shanna T. Melton2010
The message I continue to get is that art is worth living for and an artist should do everything possible to continue creating and growing. There is a conflict with existing as an artist when your everyday life does not feed creativity. Sure there are lines people say or words that summon the inner writer. There are events that take place and ignite our anger and passion for change. We fall in and out of love and passionately feel like every moment of emotion deserves documentation. We hear notes in our head and convince the world it is music then watch as backs arch, feet stomp, and heads bob unwillingly. There are also times when nothing feels poetic or worth documenting. It is just something to survive and put in the past even with the knowledge that it is worth a testimony. Artists are often dreamers and we want to maintain comfortable lifestyles off of our dreams. That sounds absurd when voiced; we want to maintain comfortable lifestyles off of our dreams.
I often wonder who I would be if I did not have my art. What would happen if I did not want to mimic the visions and sound of scratching paintbrushes that fill my head? If I never introduced the words that sound beautiful in my mind to paper and confined the freedom I experience under the title of a poem, story, or essay. How does it look when we walk by colors and shapes or see the different shades that define a person’s face and feel like it is common enough that I am justified in taking them for granted? Is it possible to hear music and not realize how the energy changed, speech takes on its rhythm, perspective becomes parallel enough to call it my own?
I am told that it is during prayer when people feel closest to god. I wonder if you have to be on your knees bowing before a cross, a sun, or clay molded into a representative of whom we believe to be our God to actually pray. I wonder if the times in my car hoping my voice moves past my windshield or while I am in the bathroom during the chaos of my day asking God to remind me that my purpose is greater than my circumstance; I wonder if those times count too. When I was younger my great grandmother would always tell me how God doesn’t give us more to carry than we can bear. So often I ask myself why I am carrying so much more than my art.
The time when I feel closest to God is when I am painting and my mind has unraveled enough through the conversations I have with it that I can hear the paintbrush pressing colors into the canvas. I feel closest to god when my hand curves with letters that fall like dominoes onto lines and construct their own melody. It is during these times that I am not present in this experience called reality because nothing is intentional. I am communicating with something greater and allowing it to guide my hands while I submit because I trust that is for a greater purpose. The purpose often remains a mystery but I have to trust that all will be revealed in time.
Who would I be without my art? I never explore this with enough depth. It is scary to go into that place where this love, the one I truly never want to overcome, could not exist. Thoughts of its importance overshadow thoughts of its absence and I rebel with a ferocious search for ways to forget that this question tried to invade my dreams. People keep telling me not to quit because there are times when I want to make my paintings and writing a secret again. There are times when I want it to be less vulnerable and open to interpretation. There are also times, more than not, when I love sharing what comes through me and being an artist is the one thing I would never sacrifice. Hearing how a painting or poem pulls emotions to the surface and inspires another to mimic their sounds and visions reminds me that reality really gets more credit than it often deserves.
©Shanna T. Melton2010
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