Mother - The Vagaries of Art and the Artist

Would I have wished for a different outcome? Yes, of course, I would have. The promise of something for the ages is tough not to heed; it feels impossible to reject, in fact. Chosen by the gods, seen as the epitome of natural beauty, compared to the magnificence of celestial bodies, to be named the most beautiful person ever met, who in their egoic mind would not swoon at the thought?  

The fear of idealization was there of course, the idealized vision of the artist was there from the beginning. How could any puny human being compare and rise to such lofty heights? There was no chance on this dualistic plane of existence that anyone could live up to the promise of eternity and the mirage of a union shattering the constraints of time and space. It was an impossible endeavor.

The fear of becoming a fallen angel was strong. It was searing and stifling, at times. One view into the mortal mirror, and there was temporariness and physical decline In progress. When would the lively colored glasses come off? What would the painter ultimately find? Would he still discover worthiness, would the subject still manage to beguile and shine? And what’s more, would interest in the real person exist and rise?

In other words, what would await when the excited dust finally settled? What would remain and persist in its stead? Would he care to see? And would he be drawn to what the mundane senses would let in? There is something to be said about the artist and the muse being a detonated set of curves. It’s about taking what is needed to continue creating. It’s about relenting to the heartless tools with which art enters our realm. There is a price to pay to become the apple of an artist’s eye, for it is a forever wandering eye of curiosity. It’s the Elfin quality that’s looked for, the unicorn identity. Museums can and have been filled with unconventional beauty, beauty that defies the standards of each artistic period and age.

Creation is a whirlwind. It rips away reliability, integrity and accountability and demands to be fed instantly.

Can’t you come back at a more auspicious time? You come barreling across fields tunneling through me, and I am your servant; that is the deal for your service. Humanity and intimate connections are both elevated and diminished by the art of an artist. Everything else recedes in the name of what wishes to come out. Hell is the other and art is the great redeemer. There is no up without down, there is no muse who does not face an excavation of suffering and pain.

The art takes precedence. Can’t you understand? It is bigger than this relationship between imperfect, eternally flawed and continuously searching human beings. Through art, I may know myself. Numbness to the world around me fuels my drive. To flirt is to appreciate, to appreciate is to crave and to crave is to live ignited. The hormone monster spurns me on. There is no halting the tide. Subjects tumble into my lap and canvases wait to be caressed. So much beauty in the world, Picasso did not limit himself, Diego didn’t constrain his hunger. The muse is not singular, it is found in every being, the uniqueness of each feminine feature; I am slave to its countless manifestations. 

You are asking too much of me, I am not ready. Too much still to taste. The world is opening up. I cannot limit myself, and I don’t want to hurt people in the process. You were an explosion in a shingle factory. I came out of the darkness - and I saw. And now all is beautifully illuminated. It is calling me. It is my time. My time, I am sorry, I couldn’t have known. I meant what was said at the time, but things change, things become clear, things are fluctuating. I thought about it, you asked me to be real. Truth is, I want to be free. My interest is waning, inconsistent, I don’t take you into consideration all the time. The intensity has lessened. What you need is something I am incapable of providing at this time…call it bad timing, call it what you will. You are sweet, and I do like you but I would hate to continue hurting you. It would not be fair. I understand you need more. It was a pleasure listening to your needs. It is a time for “Ire”. Be well. I am off to the next incarnation of sultry disguise.