The Muse of Inspiration and the Muse of Realization are my dear friends. By now I know to be careful inviting them over at the same time. When they're together in my studio, there can be pushing and shoving and someone just might get hurt.
MI is a bit giddy, a fart in the wind as it were. She gets all wiggly and wants to start at the end, skipping all kinds of important stuff in the beginning and middle.
MR can be a bummer. With her arms folded in front of herself, one eyebrow up and half a smile, she says, “What made you think that was going to work?”
Like your favorite grade school teacher however, Ms. Realization says that with love and a nudge, so that you get the feeling that while the inspiration was a bit flawed, there really is something there that needs exploring.
My inspiration this time around was a thicket of plum bushes. They seem to be everywhere now, riding fence rows and tucking under knobby trees. The attraction was the subtle colors, the tangle of twigs and branches fighting to hold back the sky.
I was not long into the painting when the realization came to me that the subject was going to be more work than fun, more obstacle than open door.
It’s been my experience lately that if I smile sweetly at Ms. Realization and agree with her, she takes her arched eyebrow and sits quietly in the corner. If I hold Ms. Inspiration at arm’s length she calms a bit, taking a seat in a different corner. Both are handy, but on their best behavior.
I’ve got a little more realizing to do here, but I’m close, and that feels good. The painting has taken a different direction than I first imagined, and that’s okay.
Between the three of us we’ll manage just fine.
Inspiration for writing finds me most often on my early morning walks.
This is most annoying. By the time my shoes are untied and a pencil is at hand, nothing is left of those lovely strings of words brought on by the rhythm of trees and the sounds of creatures waking up.
Let me tell you about it this way -
Our little community is laid out like a Mondrian painting; right angles, straight wide streets, cars and trucks in staccato rhythms.
The snowy yard with its purple shadows and old shack is a Monet painting.
Jackson Pollack is woven into the tangle of branches in overgrown ditches.
Nikita Fedosov would be right at home here.
As for me, it really stings when the words I’ve carefully crafted dribble out my ear and into the garden…
I've been sharing the odds and ends of my art life for the last 8 years.