When Art Itself Dies

On January 10th, 2016, art died.

Or rather, one of the vessels the creative force chose to use in order to get its message across is with us no more. R.I.P. David Bowie. Once in a great while, a person is born who is used as a messenger. David Bowie was one of the chosen.

It's rare, it's beautiful, and it's heartless.

When chosen, the driving force inside the person doesn't take no for an answer. Against all odds, they must create. Break boundaries. Suffer misunderstanding and ridicule. Allow their bodies and minds to be used in an attempt to deliver the message. Because creation has no morals. Its only goal is to create. Change. Make something new.

If you don't believe me, take a look all around you. Nature knows. The only moral is change or die. Or, rather, change and die, anyway. Because death is rebirth.  Create. Change. Live. Die.

When creation chose Bowie, it chose a winner. Bowie changed the face of music in ways the world had never seen before. He paved the way for new genres in music. But he also forced social change. He WAS art. He was unstoppable. Until the very end, he created. Knowing he had cancer, he did yet one more album for his fans. It came out on his birthday: Blackstar.

And now he's gone.

Some people never knew the genius of Bowie. They either refused to see it, or were incapable of understanding. Not because they were stupid, or less than. But because their calling is different. For many creatives around the world, he was a driving force that fed us, motivated us, and implored us to get off our asses, get over our insecurities and fears, and get on with what we were put on earth to do: make art. For others, they simply loved his music, and that's valid, too.

But for creatives, it doesn't matter if you make music, paintings, fiction, plays, or any other creative endeavor. If you're a creative, you must create or your purpose here is unfulfilled. And, yet, most of us are not art itself. We're just puking out creation because a little tiny bit of that force is in us. It must be shared. It must be given authenticity, regardless of if we "make it" as an artist or not.

See, for creatives, it isn't necessarily a blessing. It's something that eats at us. It consumes us, and makes us step out, baring our souls—knowing full well there will be many who shame us, humiliate us, make fun of us, and tear our work down. There will be those who use us. And there will be those who say we're fakes.We keep going anyway. We have no choice. It's what we're here for.

I think Billy Idol sums it up in his song, Can't Break Me Down, from his latest album, Kings & Queens of the Underground:

"It's just my natural reaction
When I hit the floor
I'm the original assassin
I come up for more."

As I said, we have no choice. Creation is the original assassin, constantly destroying the old to bring in the new. Create. Change. Live. Die.

But there will also be those who understand, who get the message. And so we create. We find the strength, and we create. Some succeed in a big way. Some keep their creations in the basement. But the force came out, became something, and lived.

For me, Bowie was a large part of my strength. When he sang, "Gimme your hands", I did. It took years, and many different tries at various forms of art, but I eventually found myself. I never let go of those hands. Only an idiot lets go of the hands holding the creative force inside. They fueled me, took the spark of creation I had inside, and lit it into a blaze. Now I write fiction for a living and paint. The painting? It sits in my basement and hangs on my walls. I've sold some. But I don't have time right now to promote both my paintings and my books. So, for now, it's all about my fiction. Will I ever become big? Who knows? It doesn't matter. I create. I make a living, which is rare. I am blessed.

"Gimme your hands."

Yesterday, my world was shattered. One I most admired, one I looked to for direction, was gone. Or so I thought. Now I realize Bowie might not be here on earth, but the driving creative force inside him will never die. It's the essence of life, and I can draw from it anytime I need to. In fact, it insists some do, because creation—or art—can never die.

Those hands still hold mine. I will never let go.

For those of you who didn't understand and appreciate Bowie, I cry for you. You truly missed out on genius. It's rare to live during a time when you can witness one who encompasses so much of the creative force. It doesn't happen every day. Not even every lifetime. Sure, artists, creators, are around all the time, but not in that amount of pure creative energy. He was a rare gift for those of us who paid attention.

Regardless, his message was heard by many.  For us who heard, after a day of tears, I laugh with joy. Bowie lived. That's a miracle.

He still lives. That's a fact.

And so it goes.

Art is.

It always will be.

Caddy Rowland is a novelist and painter. Her social media links follow.

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Those Crazy Bohemians (Sexuality)

As an indie author I am responsible for everything in regard to my work, from the writing to the publicity. That includes, of course, all research. What fun I had researching the bohemian artists of nineteenth century France! Although I am taking a break from historical fiction for my next series, I know I will come back to this time period and this social group in future work.

We have explored many aspects of the bohemian lifestyle in previous posts. We know these artists lived free of social convention when it came to painting and partying, but what about their lives when it came to relationships?

Sexuality among the bohemians was as free and unconventional as the rest of their life. Although some artists had long term partners (people do fall in love, after all), in general most had casual relationships or short term romances/sexual liaisons. Even those who had spouses usually had mistresses and one night stands. Free love officially got its start during this time.

Artist models were passed around from painter to painter, and usually there was a sexual relationship between the model and the man currently painting her. She was the "muse". One artist would be inspired by her hair, another by the way her ankles and calves looked. Once the initial excitement of whatever impressed the painter was over, they usually looked for new inspiration and the model moved on. Many people in present day mistakenly think being an artist's model was glamorous. Not so. It was akin to being a prostitute, but usually without pay! At least, in monetary terms. The model had her face and body featured in paintings for the world to see, hopefully for many generations to come.

There were also sexual encounters between higher class women and the bohemian artists. Women have always been drawn to artistic types, and these poor, starving artists were no exception - especially if they were good-looking. However, it was understood that it was sex only. The woman looked right past the painter should she meet him on the street while with her spouse or friends. Nor was the artist considered marrying material. He was simply wild entertainment, to be tossed aside by the woman once finished.

Of course, there were many bohemian artists who only dreamed of having a beautiful, wealthy lover who actually smelled good! Most times they ended up with some poor grisette who was not so good-looking (and much less good smelling!). No matter. Sex was frequent, partners were plentiful, and it was a way to forget their rumbling stomachs and cold rooms for a few hours.

Homosexuality and lesbianism were also more accepted with the bohemians. With their "live and let live" lifestyle, it didn't matter to them who a person loved or simply desired. It was the business of the couple and no one else.

Montmartre was also a place where the wealthier people came to "slum" for a night. They could find prostitutes of both sexes, some of them very young boys. Yes, Montmartre was known as the hub of vices and pleasures.

On the surface, it looked like all fun and games. The average person ignored the fact that these artists many times went without eating, lived in unheated slums, seldom had running water, and likely found most of life quite unpleasant and depressing. Who could blame them for finding what pleasure they could out of life? Who wouldn't?

Another thing to keep in mind during this time was that syphilis had started to become a huge issue. Along with poor birth control, this lifestyle of free sex had its repercussions; yet young men with access to young women very seldom thought about it. Many artists fathered children but didn't bother to marry. The women then ended up in worse poverty, with hungry children to feed.

Yes, to their credit, some did marry or at least try to provide for their children, but by and large it was a man's world, and women opened their legs at their own peril. Still, there was no shortage of women who were willing to model (and more) for these crazy bohemians.

After all, not many could resist the lure of the nonconforming, free-living artists. Since they painted wild and without rules, it had to seem that they would likely be the the same in bed. And who knows? Maybe they were every bit as good with that particular "paintbrush". Only the artists and their partners will ever know.

Caddy Rowland is a novelist and painter. Her social media links follow.

To find out about her novels (including The Gastien Series, a story that begins with a bohemian artist in France) visit http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B005FW8BZE

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A Letter to My Father

Today is Father's Day and my father has been deceased now for 30 years. He died when I was 27. Our relationship went from me thinking he was God to total war and finally to tiptoeing toward a pact for peace before he left this world.

The last time I saw him, he and Mom had come for the weekend to visit my husband and me. We walked down to the underground garage with them and kissed them both as they got in the car. Then we turned around and headed back to the apartment elevator.

I clearly remember thinking, "Turn around and look at him because you might not see him again." Immediately I told myself to quit being so dramatic, there was no reason I wouldn't see him. He was only 57 and in good health.

The next Saturday, we played in a poker tourney at Dave's brother's house and I won first place. I was so excited! We sent to sleep and at 6:30 in the morning the phone rang. I answered and the operator asked to speak to Dave. I handed the phone to my husband and he went white. Covering the phone, he turned to me with sad eyes and said, "Oh, Hon. I'm so sorry. Your father has died."

 I was 27.

We had recently begun to repair the relationship and heal, but there had not been enough time to enjoy our newly repaired, tentative feelings toward each other. There was not enough time for either of us to prove that love was still real.

Today I feel the need to send my father a letter. Today I feel my father needs me and, yeah, I need him.

To My Father,

 Dad, I want you to know that your were the best father a little girl could have ever had, bar none. The time you and mom spent with me, the places you took me to, the fun things we did far outnumber what most parents do. Some of the things I hated at the time, but now i have a love of classical music, thanks to you. While I don't practice organized religion (which somehow now that I am older I don't think would bother you as much as you pretended it would) I do have a belief in the spriritual and solid principles that I can reflect on when the going gets tough. When I became a teenager, civil war broke out between us and it continued through my early twenties. We were too different, too opinionated, and I know now you feared my turning into a young woman who appeared "sexy" and wanted to protect me. I'm glad that we had started to mend things by the time you died, too young, at the age I am now. 57. I was 27. I'm glad we said "i love you" more than once before you had to go. I wish you could have accepted my differences, but I know now it wasn't because you didn't love me, but because of your upbringing and some awful things that occurred in your life that you found it hard to be anyting but unwavering in the opinions that you held in order to stay strong. I miss you, Daddy, and now I understand, even if we stll wouldn't usually agree. It's all cool. And you know what? I know you miss talking to me, too.

Happy Father's Day, from your rebel artist daughter,

Carolyn Anne 

Caddy Rowland is a novelist and painter. Her social media links follow.

To find out about her novels (including The Gastien Series, a story that begins with a bohemian artist in France) visit http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B005FW8BZE

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Those Crazy Bohemians (Drinks and Drugs)

Disclaimer: This indie author is in no way advocating the use of drugs or abuse of alcohol by posting this. I am simply reporting the facts that contributed to the wild, crazy bohemian era of late nineteenth and early twentieth century Montmartre.

That said, partying was every bit as serious of a business as painting for most of the artists of Montmartre during that aforementioned heyday. For one thing, there was a nunnery in Montmartre that produced a cheap vin rouge (red wine). Can one blame the artists for wanting to contribute to the local economy? Besides, they were contributing to the church, right? :)

Even though vin was popular, the drink most of us think of when we think of those artists is absinthe. Green fairy. Ah, yes. Riding the green fairy was a frequent pass time for most of these creative artists. If you look closely at many of the paintings, you will see a glass with green in it. Ever wonder what that was? Absinthe on its own tasted horrible. It is made from wormwood and had a very bitter taste. That's why a slotted spoon was placed across one's glass and a sugar cube placed on the spoon. Then, if you were doing it the classy way, water was slowly poured over the sugar, melting it into the absinthe.

If you were in a hurry, you bypassed the class, poured alcohol on the sugar and lit it on fire. Then you turned the spoon over and dumped the flaming cube into the absinthe. Either way, the clear liquid became cloudy. But not as cloudy as the mind of the partaker. It has a chemical in it called thujone, which was blamed for all kinds of behavior. This is unlikely, however. Today we know the thujone in absinthe just isn't that strong. What was more likely is that dishonest bottlers were putting rubbing alcohol in the bottles and less absinthe. That could account for all kinds of problems, including death!

Hard drugs were not only widely available but legal. At one point there were over 1,500 legally operating opium dens in Paris. The French Navy even looked the other way when sailors used it...until they caused a submarine accident. When The Moulin Rouge opened there was a fake elephant on the property. Inside, a gentleman (?) could partake in opium and prostitutes.

Heroin became legal once doctors began realizing opium caused problems. In fact, the same makers of Bayer also made heroin - and they decided aspirin had too many dangerous side affects so they kept that from the public and marketing heroin!

Yes, at different points during this era one could buy heroin or opium candy, cough drops, smoke it,do whatever they wanted with it and even gave it to children who were sick. Hashish was plentiful and also legal. Smoked and eaten, most artists were either high or drunk a good majority of the time. Perhaps that helped them see things in a new way!

It's interesting to read about how many of these artists went to insane asylums periodically, tried to commit suicide, became alcoholics, and actually did end up taking their life. It had to be sometimes caused by drugs and alcohol. Other times it was probably caused by the paints themselves. No one yet understood much about the toxic qualities of many mineral based paints. In fact, Paris Green (the most popular green for Impressionist painters) was also being used as rat poison in the Paris sewers. Hmmmmm. Nobody could figure out that perhaps that wasn't good to have on your skin?

Then there were the solvents and sometimes poorly ventilated surroundings. Inhaling turpentine for hours at a time couldn't do much for the brain cells. No wonder they drank and got high. They probably usually felt like hell.

Heavy partiers, yes, but at a very heavy price. On the surface, it appears like a fun, crazy time. Dig a little deeper and one finds that many people paid for the fun with their sanity and their lives. Oh, you crazy bohemians. You were so decadent, and yet so innocent. If only you knew the heavy price you were likely to pay for all of that pleasure. And perhaps you still would have done it. Live wasn't easy and being numb for awhile was quite likely a blessed relief.

Caddy Rowland is a novelist and painter. Her social media links follow.

To find out about her novels (including The Gastien Series, a story that begins with a bohemian artist in France) visit http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B005FW8BZE

Sign up for New Release Newsletter by Email: http://eepurl.com/rfjaX

Gastien Fanpage: www.facebook.com/Gastien.Beauchamp

Author Blog: www.caddyrowlandblog.blogspot.com

Author Email: caddyauthor@yahoo.com

Twitter: @caddyorpims

Fourth Book in The Gastien Series and New Painting Photos

Happy 2013 to all of you! I hope this year brings you closer to realizing all of your hopes and dreams, with many coming true. I have been so busy that I forgot to announce the release on my fourth book in "The Gastien Series" here on my blog!

Also, a lot of people had been asking me when I was going to get some of my painting up on a website.  Well, I haven't designed a speicific website fo them, but I did add tabs to the top of this page where you can view some of my paintings.  Just click on the various "Makin' Love to the Color" tabs to see my work in various styles.  I hope you enjoy them.

And, now, introducing the newest book in "The Gastien Series" :

Europe is full of dark memories. Giselle's love is forbidden; her chance to be a mother destroyed. She flees to America where she becomes the haute couture fashion designer to the wealthy, high-society Grand Dames of New York. After all, she had been mentored in Paris by the legendary Charles Worth himself.

Giselle's past remains cloaked in shadows, increasing her allure. Her heart is engaged by a man who comes to her only in secrecy, drawing her back to her mysterious past.

When her brother dies and his wife abandons their child, she takes on the care of her infant nephew. Giselle decides she has to stop and take stock of her life. She has been given her one chance to be a mother, but the cost will be the end of the few moments she can still have with her one true love.

Yet love is not easily destroyed for those who are strong enough to survive its pain.

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Thank you. Next blog we will be getting back to Those Crazy Bohemains...unless something else starts tapping at my brain!

Those Crazy Bohemains! (At last, painting en plein aire)

As both an indie author and a painter, I completely relate to the excitement and fear the nineteenth and twentieth century bohemian artists of Paris felt in regard to their new found freedom.  Now they could paint what they wanted, yet they were not guaranteed any income! The same is true for indie authoring/self publishing. It is a roll of the dice. But, oh, what freedom!

This freedom to paint whatever they wanted was joined with the need to paint in new ways. This was not the only freedom that these artists had for the first time, however. Something very simple and basic to us had just started to exist for these artists.  Paint in tubes.

For the first time, artists did not have to spend hours painstakingly mixing their colors from raw pigments mixed with medium of their choice. This took hours and confined them to studio painting. It was simply too difficult to be portable. When painting in tubes became widely available the game changed. Now artists could pack up and paint wherever their hearts desired! Imagine the excitement of painting for the first time en plein aire (outside)!

Now artists could paint landscapes and street scenes in new ways, capturing the glow of sunrise or sunset, the glare of full sun, the shadows as they moved across the buildings during different parts of the day. The colors of things changed depending on the weather and time of day. Artists had always known that, but now it was even easier to capture on canvas. Gone was the desire to paint picture perfect. Instead of worrying about making a two dimensional canvas appear three dimensional, many Impressionists allowed their painting to look flat. They concentrated on showing us something different: The brightness, the glow, the shadows, the color. Show me something different indeed!

These Impressionists found they had a new problem when painting outside. Now they needed to work quickly, and oils take time to dry between layers. They began to work alla prima, or wet-on-wet. This technique not only allowed them to work faster, it demanded they do so. It was imperative to get the layers on before the first layer dried.

These artists shared techniques and ideas constantly, both at popular painting sites and at cabarets, such as Au Lapin Agile and Chat Noir. One of the most popular places to paint en plein aire became Place du Tertre in Montmartre. Although technically part of Paris, the village maintained that it was independent of the city, and it was the place where Impressionism truly began. We will talk more about these famous places, and about the bohemian artists and their lifestyle in later posts.

Those Crazy Bohemians (Why Impressionism?)

The period of Impressionism saw artists begin to paint in new and exciting ways.  For centuries artists had been painting realism, making paintings exact reproductions of the subject matter.  Strict rules had been followed and subject matter often was religious or portraits of family members of the upper class.  There was also still life and landscape.  Every painting had been done to "perfection" rendering an eternal picture of how a person or place actually looked.

What changed artists and their visions in the nineteenth century?

The answer was simple.  It would be romantic to think it was all about artistic vision and the desire to always create something new.  While those things were definitely part of the equation, the main driving force behind artists painting in a new way was one of the most basic: survival.

You see, the camera had been invented and was becoming more and more effective at taking photos. What use would there be for artists who took weeks and months to finish a portrait when a photographer could be hired? True, the photographs were not in color.  But artists realized that it was only a matter of time before that would no longer be true and, if they did not change their style, they would become obsolete.

Another problem compounded the dilemma. Class structure had changed.  Now there was a middle class.  The lower middle class was called proletariat. The lowest of these proletarians were the artisans. All of a sudden, more and more artists who painted found themselves on their own and struggling to put food in their mouth.

You see, for centuries artists had been employed by the very wealthy to paint family portraits and history, many times staying on permanently as a staff member to continue to paint that history over the years.  They had a place to sleep, food, and sometimes were even treated like a family member.  It really depended upon the family how the artist was seen.  Some families considered the artist another servant, and provided minimal lodging, food, and a small wage.  Others loved their artist and had them sit with them at family meals, gave them a room in the main house that was luxurious and paid them quite well.

The trade off? The artist had no freedom to paint what their soul cried for them to paint.  All of their time was taken up painting for the family. Many artists mourned the fact that they spent their life painting things they would rather not be painting, just to make a living.  Still, the fact that they had food, shelter and a wage was nothing to turn one's back on.

Then the camera came. All of a sudden, it became more and more rare for an artist to have permanent employment with a family.  Sure, they could be hired once in awhile for a painting, but even that was not guaranteed. Now they had the freedom that all people blessed with artistic ability long for...but no money! No place to live and, very often, nothing to eat. Artists began living in squalor, sometimes going door to door with paintings begging for buyers at any price, just so they could eat. Even Renoir and Degas had to peddle their paintings just to make rent at times.

It seemed there was no happy medium. Artists today still struggle to make it.

These artists began gathering and talking with each other. Ideas fed off of each other and soon the images that were talked about began to appear on canvas. They knew everything that they painted going forward had to have something different about it or it would never sell.

I, for one, am happy that all of this change occurred.  Realism generally bores me. Look, anyone who can paint can do a vase of flowers exactly how it looks. All artists can create a still life in exact replica of the items places in front of them.  So can a camera.  If you want a reproduction, for God's sake just take a picture.

The new mantra for these bohemians was "Show me something different".  And did they ever! We will talk more about those crazy bohemians in future posts.  For now, I will just end by saying this: If you want real art hanging on your walls, go for the piece that shows the ordinary in an extraordinary way. As those bohemians realized, THAT is what art would and should be, moving forward. Once art becomes stagnant it ceases to be the driving force it is meant to be.

Art should always be fresh and alive. Art should always strive to reinvent itself; to be something different. Anything less tarnishes the very definition of art.

What turns you on? Part 2: Lifestyle Choices

There are so many things to choose from in regard to lifestyle.  I could blog on lifestyle for days, but instead how about if I list some of my likes and dislikes and then you give me some of yours?  These will be random, from leisure to spiritual to whatever.

First of all, for leisure I really like to paint, play cards, hike and walk in the woods, interact with my parrots, watch movies, and get together with friends. Plays and art galleries are also great. 

I HATE bowling.  Bowling is just plain boring. I would rather stick toothpicks under my fingernails than bowl.  I also dislike watching hockey.  Yawn. Oh, and is there anything more dull than looking at picture after picture of someone's friends or relatives and you don't know a single one of them?  A few pics, fine.  An album? Spare me (that was thrown in for you bowling fans).

I dislike bed & breakfasts.  Most smell like mildew and are decorated like an 80 year old spinster sleeps in the room. Not exactly fantasy inspiring for your man.  Sex with grandma?  Um, no thanks. When getting away for a weekend with my husband, the last thing I want is walls as thin as cardboard and breakfast at a table with a bunch of strangers I am never going to see again.  Call me crazy, but a weekend away with my husband can be spent in a passtime much more fun than quiche and muffins with Joe from Iowa. Before you criticize my choice, consider that the same man has stayed with me for decades.  I must know something about favorite passtimes.

Nor do I enjoy camping.  Um, no thanks.  Although, if I had to camp I would rather bathe in a lake and poop in the woods then use a public shower and toilet.  Sorry.  Not gonna happen.  Give me a whirlpool tub and a bottle of wine or don't ask me to leave my home overnight.  And not in some creaky old bed & breakfast either.

I am spiritual but dislike organized religion.  God clubs don't ring true to me, and usually the people most active in them don't either. Enjoy your club, but don't ask me to become a member or try to scare me into joining. "Believing" out of fear is not faith. It is only being a coward. Check out the definition of "cult". Sound familiar? Had plenty of experience with organized religion in the past. Not happening .  God, or the energy source, knows me.  I know it and I know how to commune with it. End of story. 

I like art that makes me think; be it a painting, movie, book, etc.  It also needs to  cause an emotional reaction.  Does not matter if that reaction is positive or negative, just move me. What do I dislike in art? Well, one of my artist friends had a t-shirt that said "Good art does not match your living room furniture."  I think that about sums it up.

Since I am an indie author, I will also mention what I like to read.  Same as what I listed above for art.  Move me.  Make me think. Don't give me a formula story. People seldom live happily ever after. Don't pretty it up, tell it real. I can take it; I am an adult.

Lastly, and probably most importantly: I love ice cream and buttered popcorn. The reason?  If you have to ask, you must be in a coma.  Some nights I have both.  Yep, I need to lose weight. No one gets out of here alive.

How about you?  Come on, tell it.  I would like to know more about you. Oh, by the way, pass the salt.

If You Could Marry Any Person In History (Now Dead)

As in indie author, I really look for ways to stoke my imagination.  One of my facebook friends used to ask cool questions almost every day that forced me to get my brain revved.  One was the question I am going to ask you today.  Then I will tell you my answer.  (Thanks, Kevin!)

If you could marry anyone no longer living that was famous, who would it be and why? It can be any time period in the past and it can be same sex as you or opposite.

Being an artist, this one was easy for me.  I absolutely adore Picasso's work.  I always feel silly saying it.  Why? Because it seems like people who don't know much about art but want to pretend to, at least know Picasso and will say he is their favorite.  But, he really is mine. Second would be his friend Braque. In fact, lots of times they would paint the same subject matter side by side.  Sometimes I like Braque's better.

                                     (Violin and Candlestick by Braque)
I know, I know.  Picasso was known to be an a-hole and a womanizer.  Hey, I have to tell ya...if I had the choice I would much rather be his mistress than his wife.  But the question does not allow that. It asks who you would marry.  Therefore, I would marry him.

                   (Portrait of Daniel-Henry Kahnweiler by Picasso)
There are no romantic or sexual reasons for this. My God, just think of what I could have learned from him about painting! To paint along with him and learn from him would be one of the greatest gifts a person could be given. I have a very strong personality so I would have insisted.  No sitting in the background for me.  He would have taught me or listened to me bitch day and night.

That said, we may not have lived long.  At least, not both of us.  I am sure we would have fought.  A lot. He was passionate and opinionated  I am...passionate and opinionated. Quite possibly one of us would have done the other in during a particularly heated round of arguing.

But until that happened, what bliss to paint with Pablo.  I would have even put up with his mistresses to learn from him.  Besides, while he was away at play I could have had my own dalliances.  There were several other artists I would not have minded "brushing" into. Ah, yes. You need some time away from the studio?  No problem, dear.  Don't hurry home.  And when you come home, bring more paint.

But today, I Paint (The Pure Bliss of the Color)

As an indie author, there is no end to the tasks I should be doing.  Marketing my first two books in the series, finding additional reviewers, and writing that third book.  I have about 46,000 words done in the first, rough draft.  If I want it done for spring, I need to start flying that plane toward home.  Yes, I know that.

But today, I paint.  I will go to class at the studio of a dear artist friend and mentor, Susan Fryer Voigt. (Check out her work by clicking on her name. The photos are not her work, nor are they mine.)  Amazing artist.  There, I will give myself permission to get lost in creation, making love to the color.  There, I don't have distractions and my books can't call out to me to help them be seen, help them exist.  They might be calling out, but I am too far away and can't hear them.  For a few hours, I become who I have always been from the beginning of my creation.  A conduit for the creative force through color.

It is an odd life to be called by the color.  No one gets it except other artists.  No matter what else you are doing at any given moment, the deepest part of your soul longs to be united with your paints; your brush.  For an artist, that is the only time that they are fully alive.  Then and during orgasm, which is the closest any of us get to our spirituality while here on earth.  We die for a brief moment during that release (the French call it the "little death") and when an artist is one with the color, their mortal self dies for a little while, too.

That union, that bliss, cannot be denied forever.  My easel sits with my latest work in progress (not this photo) out where I constantly see it.  I hope that I will take more time to enter that nirvana if I constantly am called...but other things have to be done.  Like trying to find a way to make a little income by writing.  And so it sits, impatiently waiting, wondering why we only have an occasional fling when we both know it is my deepest love.

Reality makes it so.  Don't get me wrong.  I love to write.  It is enjoyable and I have fun with it.  I am good at it.  It is also a long shot at providing any sustainable income, but less so than painting.  Since I have already spent most of my life working at careers that don't fulfill my calling, I have decided to try to make a go of it.  It takes time and luck and LOTS of work. I might fail in the end.  Writers, like painters, are as common as dust on my coffee table. But at least I am finally trying. 

In the meantime, my lover waits.  Color knows no sense of time.  It just knows when we are apart and when we become one.  When we merge, I understand what it means to fly. My deepest love, how I wish we could be one all of the time. This love is different than the love of another person.  This is the love of the force that made you.  This is that force speaking through your hand. It is ecstasy.

Yes, my books need me.  Gastien Part 1 and 2 languish far down on the list and deserve to be in the Top 100.  Book 3 is waiting to be born.  I know I need several books to get the momentum really going.  I know that. And I love them deeply.

But today, I paint.

Ménage à Trois and Loving It

People say it's wrong.  I know that.  Still, I can't stop.  How can I choose just one?  To live without either would kill me.  They both fulfill me in different ways...and in like ways, too.  Each can consume me.  I get lost in them for hours at a time. When I am with either, I am totally immersed in their sensuous, sinuous offerings.  Yes, I am in love with two.  And I am damn proud of it.

Oh, wait!  Did you think I was talking about men?  Or perhaps one of each sex?  No, no, nothing that ho-hum; nothing that cliche. I am talking about writing and painting.  Those, you see, are the two that I love.  Of course, I love my husband even more in a completely different way, but I did not want to say I love three.  You might think I am too promiscuous then!

Both writing and painting offer me the platform to create.  Ah, creation.  The start of everything the universe has ever known.  Is creation, that energy that turns thoughts into realities, what God is?  Perhaps.  Creative energy.  That certainly does not put limits on God.  In fact, to me it makes God as huge as a god should be.  The vastness of creation is unparalleled.  To give something like that human qualities (jealous, forgiving, loving, angry) seems much more limiting in my book.  Of course, my book may be much different than yours.

Writing gives me the ability to create characters and scenes; thoughts and deeds.  Painting gives me the ability to express emotions and visual beauty or horror.  They say a picture is worth a thousand words.  Yet, they also say that verbal abuse is much more damaging than physical abuse. 

Words and visuals.  Paintings and books.  They both can cause a woman to sigh in ecstasy, a man to fall to his knees in horror.  Words can make a grown man cry, paintings can slice a hole in ones soul.  Both can heal.  Pretty heady stuff, books and paintings.

So, I will continue my love affairs with both.  Today I am committed to writing twenty pages in my third novel.  Yesterday I got a review from a total stranger, a man, for Gastien Part 2: From Dream to Destiny.  There is nothing quite like the feeling I get when I see that someone I will never know has been drawn to read my work.  He gave it 5 stars.  I am honored.  He said he laughed and he cried.  I made a man cry with a love story.  Words.  They have brute strength.

After I write my twenty pages, I will pick up my favorite paintbrush and continue to caress either my impressionistic painting of a street in Montmartre, or I will continue to soul kiss some cubism I am working on.  Depends on my mood.  Paintings.  Visual statements from my soul to your eyes. Will you love them?  I don't know. What I do know is that the paintings will know that I loved them to the best of my ability.

Me and my loves.  My loves and me.  How fortunate I am to have them both in my life.  They sometimes fight for attention, but they both know I love them equally. We exist blissfully in our ménage à trois. Care to join us?

The Mental Illness of Creativity

Being an indie author and a painter, I have had the opportunity to meet many other creative types.  I have also read about a lot of different artists, mostly painters, or watched documentaries about them.  What I have discovered is that for the vast majority of them, mental illness seems to be part of their make-up.

Everyone assumes that being talented in the arts is a blessing.  Yes, indeed it is in many ways.  In some ways, though, it is a curse.  Most of us will never make much money at all from our artistic endeavors.  To pursue the life of an artist full time is usually equivalent to pursuing poverty.  It is not enjoyable to move from crappy room or apartment to another, nor is it enjoyable to wonder where your next meal comes from. How many famous artists made money while they were alive?  Point made. For a painter, fame usually follows death.,,if it comes at all.

So, most of us work at other jobs.  Usually, these jobs feel to us like they are sucking our soul out of our body.  Some of us always work at something else full time.  Some work part-time.  Others take some time off to just create, hoping against hope that they will find a way to continue full time at what they were meant to do.

This creates other problems.  If we have other jobs, our free time is limited.  Do we create or do we involve ourselves in personal relationships?  It is damn difficult to work 40 hours, write or paint, be a lover and friend, raise kids, take care of a home,  and all of the other things that involve life.

The artist is always torn. Really, the reason they are here is to create.  When they are not creating, they feel real anguish and a pull that is hard to silence.  When they create, they become so involved in their work that everything outside of that is shut out.  That hurts people they love.

Because artists are human, they also need love and want to love.  If they take the time to be involved with another adult, take the time to have children and really enjoy them....when do they create?  Do they give up sleep to create?  That can't be continued forever, either.

That is the conflict that creatives face every moment of each day.  One thing that I have noticed and discussed with many artists is the fact that, if you read about almost any past painter, almost every one of them either spent time in a mental institution (sometimes more than once), had alcohol or drug problems, or committed suicide.  Seriously, I would bet at least 90% of them.

So, here is my question.  Are creatives already mentally ill because of the way they see things?  Or does the stress of trying to create, make a living, and be involved with others all at the same time cause it?  I know I see things differently than most.  I always have. I have also struggled with some forms of mental illness.  Drugs for it dull creativity so I opt to go without.  Learn to cope. Accept my alienation that I feel at times.  Go deep inside and ground myself.

Ah, yes.  The blessing of creative talent.  Is my storytelling simply a way to escape reality?  I don't know.  What about my painting?  Is it a blessing? When I am dead, who will give a damn about the hundreds of canvases painted in my basement? When I think of that, my paintbrush feels more like a dagger that could, at any time, be plunged deep into my heart.

And so I go back to square one.  Go back, as I said, deep within myself to find my grounding.  I remember, once again, that I don't create simply because I am good enough or because I love it.  I create because I have to.  That is why I am here. Words and me.  Color and me.  Why I am here.

Strange Magic: The Courtship Between Color and Me

I don't know how most artists paint, but I definitely have a sort of courtship dance that I do with my work.  I always look forward to the days that I plan on makin' love to the color.  In my head I imagine spending hours upon hours lost in that special place.  It seldom happens that way for me, though.

For some reason, I have to "court" the color, or perhaps the painting.  First, I get things set up.  Easel, canvas, paints at the ready.  My favorite brushes.  The palette.  Then, the dance begins. 

Oh, I may draw a little bit, or paint the background or underpainting.  I am just as likely to do nothing, though.  I have to kind of walk around the house, looking at the canvas on the easel.  Not too bold.  Just a glance.  I don't want to make it uncomfortable.  That canvas is no hussy!  It is a rare gift to me, and I damn well better treat it right!  To paint is to be with my Creator and that is holy.  Homage must be made.

Finally, I approach.  It may be the same day, it may not.  As I begin, I play one of 4 CD's.  Dire Straights first album simply titled "Dire Straights".  Joan Osborne's CD "Early Recordings".  Joan Jett's Greatest Hits.  Or The Beatles "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band".  Why those?  I don't know.  Does it matter?  Sometimes I will listen to the radio, too.  Classic Rock, or Classical.  But mostly it is those four.  Those four are "our songs".  The songs the color and I fall in love with each other to.

I may paint three or four hours.  I may paint two.  Then, the dance begins again.  I have to walk around, glancing at it.  Look up from the table while eating and notice nuances, what works, what isn't.  Still, I don't jump up and "fix" it or elaborate.  No, no!  One cannot accost their lover.

When the time is right to begin again, I know.  I can then start to caress my lover and show it, just a little more, what I am feeling for it.  Eventually, the painting gets done.  Sometimes I feel it is a success.  Other times, I feel I have fallen far short of what I was trying to express to my dearest love.

It used to puzzle me, this game of cat and mouse.  It seemed I must be scared to just paint!  I finally realize it is not fear.  It is reverence.  It is a building of anticipation, a sensuous revelling in the erotic pleasure of creation. 

Just like making love to a human, the joy...the bliss of the act should not be ignored.  Yes, the ending is breathtaking for me, just like with sex...but, oh, the pleasure of building up to that!  That is not to be taken lightly, but prolonged so that every fiber of my being can rejoice in it. My color.  My love.  My everything.