What makes me laugh the most, is when people think being an artist is a luxury job.
You have to understand, not being an artist is not a choice. Being an artist is a treacherous hell of mind fudge. You are constantly peeling layers of your skin; you are skinning yourself into whatever form of art you create.
Gusts of wind travel from my window and it echoes into my empty easel. My easel is my lifelong friend who kept me company during many lonely nights. Buried between books and notes about subjects that were far away from any sort of creativity. Why did I want so bad to know how things happened at the cellular level in a living being? Why did I care so much?
What was I trying to piece together? Which puzzle?
Let me tell you after all the years of rigorous scientific studies, only one fact was proven: the present moment. Living in the present moment with the 38 ATP molecules produced and with or without long telomeres. We can still be killed in a car crash. Nothing in this life is certain only the present moment is certain.
So, there are the depressive dilemmas I encounter as an artist. When I paint am I in a trance state or am I in a meditative state? Will there ever be a limit to the questions I can ask through my art? Subjects I invoke?
Life held me, hostage, in an empty room with an easel. The easel is a doorway to a dark place, as I walk through it, I find myself going down a dark corridor leading to a dark musty room. In this room one wooden couch sits, the air is humid, still,
and cool. The light is faint and I see a person sitting hunched over on the couch. I only see their back. As I step closer to them my hand reaches out to the person’s shoulder. She turns her head after I tap her shoulder and it’s me. Except I am 8 or 7 years old and I look very tired and sleepy.