From time to time, I will expound on certain thoughts I have about being an artist. You can see earlier thoughts, here and here. I ask a lot of questions, I'm pensive and analytical.The rickety audio of my observations and experiences is here, Lives on Display and Beauty were my commentary after 2 seasons of slam poetry contrasted with a more academic point of view. The original poetry/blog archive, with much meandering and wibbling about art, is here, have at it.
I often refer to my first year, post-trauma, as the year I spent as a walking corpse. The truth is, I'd been flayed alive. What callouses I'd built up to the world, were ripped away.
Last night, I watched this and wept. With both the joy of recognition and the rippling memory of agony. It's about halfway through the video that the, "A-HA! That's exactly right! Oh my god..." *wibble* moment occurs.
There are extraordinary souls in this world. Watch that, and you're watching one of them.
When you carve away all the layers of ego and bullshit, the making of art is about making something whole in ourselves. Making something outside of ourselves that can be shared, is a method of communication. We mend ourselves and each other in tiny ways. It can mean everything, at the right moment.