letstalkart:

Energy

Here I sit, with this glowing box shaped thing in my lap again. It’s 1 in the morning and most of the people I know are tucked into their beds sleeping in preparations for tomorrow’s load of always important, but not really important, stuff. I sit here tonight with a cup of warm tea, wearing my favorite whats up dog life is good T shirt that matches my oh so dapper pajama pants with jiminy cricket embroidered on the back pocket.

My mind is heavy, my heart is full, and my creative energy is keeping me from sleep. I have work I’m starting, work I’m not starting, and work I’m afraid to start swimming in my subconscious. I feel that tug on the string deep inside me lifting me up again, compelling me to create, to make something, to make sense of it all. I’m laying back, falling into the flow of that thing deep inside myself that I have always known isn’t just there inside everyone, it chose me, it makes me unique. The thing that feels like it’s much older then just me, where the edges feel like insanity and the heart of the thing is full of warm colors that move and splash themselves on all the things I collect inside myself because they use to seem so important.

I’ve heard that paciso said that art is the thing that dusts off our very souls, and it’s this maddening thing that I carry that propells me full on into art. I have no choice, I am here to make art, that is my purpose, that is what I do. I find that just the very word art isn’t right though, it’s not enough, it doesn’t convey what it actualy is artist do. The word is to stagnent, it lacks the movement and sound a word needs to convey the bond that ties me to this thing. I learn of great artist, and read of their lives and feel that thing swell up inside me.

I fear I will go mad in this, if I lift anchor and let it take me I will go mad. All I can put into any image is just a small reflection of a small part of what it does me. That is all my work ever will be, a reaction of this. It changes my world, and how I see it. It makes me able to love my wife from my gut, and see her and be moved by the way there is that small freckle on her index finger. It’s the freckle, that damn freckle that I can’t ever recreate no matter how hard I try. Picture after picture, piece after piece I make with her as my soul inspiriation and I can’t somehow express how that damn freckle on her index finger moves me.

That is what art is to me, it’s movement.

movement

    movement

         movement

Just the very word, how it’s spelled, how it looks, conveys meaning to me.

Art moves the things inside us that everyday life traps.

If your trying to create art you will fail, you have to let art create you. There is no other choice in the matter, that is the only way it can be. Work made while trying to create art has always and will always be with movement, without it’s soul. When you look into the face of actual art you will see it’s movements, the river that flows into it and from it. Anything, even if it’s called art, that doesn’t have it is just dead, without feeling, without movement, just dead.