Creative Space

North America is death for the artist. In a continent so controlled by the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness, any time spent searching for the leisure of contemplation becomes a simmering pot of water on the back-burner of the oven of life. Why else would the Lost Generation have chosen France to find themselves?

The artist needs a clear head to listen to the internal voices of inspiration. Now, I cannot possibly deny that it is the duty of the artist to create this head-space for her or himself, and that great artists seem to transcend chaos to reach these heavenly pastures of creative flare. For this is part of the struggle for the artist during the creative process -- to take noise and randomness and make it poetic. However, finding the ideal creative space is as hard, if not harder, than the act of creating itself.

Life and Art in the Kingdom of Normal

No lights. No camera. Coral these cerebral circus noises into single file lines of brain cells that when grouped together resemble a train of thought. Walk through these wintery-frozen sleepy fields of ordinary and christmas sweaters around the fire at night watching g-rated movies full of wholesome family values and clever jokes politely covering up the suggestive colours of life not allowed inside some living rooms. Everybody's posing for a portrait, so when they're caught by surprise they look like they had a life that stretched far beyond the familiar into previously unexplored realms of thought and action. Go searching through your neighbours bathrooms so you can see what they are really washing off. Or pick up the paintbrush and try a stroke for yourself. See how it feels to finally hold the direction of your colour.  

Be guided by the chemicals that expand your pupils and slow the world down so you can handle it. Don't be scared of how they look at you, there's a survivalist in everybody. Shoot. Kill. Roll-over. Play dead. Disguise yourself as a mourner in another family's wake. Try to spot the people who are faking it. The ones that, upon hearing the bad news, make it sound as if they were that person's best friend. All along they didn't even know her favourite colour, and they laughed at her when she left the room. Tourists. 

Be moved by art. Get lost in another person's expression of emotion. Try to blend into their rainbow. This salty flavoured life of popcorn-at-the-movies has made me fat. Fat on life. Fat on materialism. Fat on laziness. Fat on excuses. Fat on R&B. Fat on redwine vinagerette. Fat on cell phone use while driving cars. Fat on marriage counsellors. Fat on sketch comedy. Fat on imported beer. Fat on imported cars. Fat on Versace. Fat on James Bond's a blonde. Fat on James Bond's Blondes. Fat on Christmas carols. Fat on faith. Fat. 

Sell household waste as art. There's no room for it out there, under a rock. Can't sweep it under the rug of life. Let's sell it in famous art museums for millions. Like painted soup cans that sky-rocketed in price when the company changed its logo. Old soup cans. Old painted soup cans hanging on the wall by the cat-shaped clock looking down with sad expressions over speghetti-tuesday night dinners. Left-over PB&J in the freezer. Eat apples, not cigarettes - they cause bad breath and pity. Two a day can keep the doctor away.

Watch silent films so you can keep your thoughts. Don't get caught silent on the other end of the conference phonecall of life. Grab a fork. Grab it with two hands. 

Kiss life on the lips and walk away smiling from the after taste.   

Writer's block

If I put pen to paper, something will come of it, right?

It's not that simple when you've lost your creative spark. When what inspires you doesn't surround you anylonger, you'll search for anything that may get the 'juices' flowing once again.

It starts to feel lost.