For me, as an artist, there are few things in life more terrifying than a blank piece of paper. This is a general term, a blank space of any kind will do. Canvas, sketchbook, wall, monitor... this emptiness is terrifying. And to have to commit to violating that space, to spoiling that pristeen space? It's a hurdle that I have to force myself to jump.
It is pregnant with possiblities, for good and bad. The worst is the possiblity that this is it. This is the point where my talents have run out, and I have exhausted the well of creativity that has sustained me down the years. That I am dry.
Or perhaps that I'll be found out. That I'm a charlatan, that all I've ever done can be traced back to one source that I have drawn from, will just be accused copying, that nothing I've done is unique. That because of that, that nothing I have ever done has any worth.
Maybe it'll just be rubbish. Something that I know that I should be capable of better of. But that's just as terrifying, in it's way. Why has this proven to be poor, when I know I can do better?
It can be hard to understand just why these things scare me like they do. Okay, so you couldn't create anymore? So? Do something else, right?
No.
This is not just what I do. It's who I am. At the risk of sounding pretentious beyond all reason, I can no more stop creating than I could breathing. At the basic core of my soul therre is a drive to remove the blank spaces from the world. If sometime that means that there is none left in me, that I am the blank empty space, then so be it. That's the price I pay. Because I have no choice but pay it.
Creativity is, for me at least, an act of love. An act of submission. There is something there, a primal need that doesn't explain too well. All I can say is that it is more than a need, it's a basic way of the world. This is one of the Rules That Govern All. There is no possible way that the universe can be different. And so, I submit to my desires, to the urges. There is no feeling in the world like when the ideas, and the communicating of them flow freely. It is a rare time that, and so one which must be grabbed and exploited whenever it occurs. When your hands itch because there isn't a pencil in them, when your hindbrain is screaming that you need to be putting this on canvas now. These are the good times, and they don't happen too often.
Art is sustained by inspiration. By the taking in of new sights, new sounds, new words, new thoughts. If there is not a supply of things, then creativity will stop. Creativity... it is a strange and fragile thing. It can be broken by so many things, chased away and stolen.
A big part of what drives my art, what inspires me, is my depression. I make no secret of that. But it steals the art as well. It's an odd thing to have to work with, in that a lot of the time I just sit and ferment ideas, and hope that I'm in a place I can take advantage when the spring propels me canvas-ward. Out of every 30 days, I can actually create (and by that I mean "create something worthwhile that has meaning, merit and value to me") on about 5 of them. I can do stuff on the other days, sure, but it will invariably be of lesser quality.
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All of which is counterbalanced by the joy, the relief of creation. There are people out there who will never know this joy, whose minds are so closed to experience and new thoughts that the ability to create is lost to them. I mourn these people. Money and approval kill creativity, at least in my world. Doing something purely for the money? That is an evil. Being rewarded for doing a job you love? That is something we should all aspire to, I guess. Bringing real world concepts like 'money' into a writing of philosophical bent is tricky. I fully and freely accept that we need money to live, to make the food happen and the heat and water happen. Balancing that pure ideal of Art against the real world is a tightrope that must be walked, even though I do not like it.
There have been times when I have found myself on my knees before a canvas, breathless and sweaty, having given my all to the act of creation. To be there, spent, empty, physically and emotionally, and to not know how you'll feel about what you have done in even a few moments.
There is addiction here. It's not something that a lot of people understand. That there is a reason why I always have a bag with me, why I always carry sketchbook and pencils. When I reach for the paper, I'm not being ignorant, you're not boring me. I just have to do this.
And, yes, I am saying that an addiction can be a good thing. I couldn't live without this, it is who I am.
All of this. All of these words, every single piece of art, every drawing or painting I have ever done... has been driven by that urge, that need to violate the blank spaces. To take the empty space and spread myself across it, to leave a vestige of myself. To say " I was here, and now things are changed." And to do that as hard as I damn well can.
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