Burning Canvas

A composition always has room for improvement, so is it true? “an artist work is never done?” Do we mirror the compositions of our lives according to these mottos that define us? There are instances I find reactions of that nature to be reflexive. In doing so I’ve recently learned that some things, in art and in life cannot be better than that which they are and sometimes imposing evolution can only begin to destroy what virtues already exist. I’ve spent the most part of the past three years crafting a piece that I never meant to be perfect, only functional. As I walk away from something that somehow is enable to be harmonious I smell the stench of burning canvas. carefully I retract my steps in efforts to save all the time I’ve put into this work. Gently, with the softest of brushes I patch and pat this disaster only to find that the material is crumbling beneath me. The moisture from the sweat and tears only make a mucky mess of things. From every view point I cannot conjure up a media that will work as an effective solution.
As an artist, utterly failing at such an epic turning point in my life I begin to lack confidence in my capability to successfully create. With all the principles and prior knowledge, I have come to accept that I will not take a liking to all my works. There is a time to accept what you cannot control and let the flow of life continue with its natural current. I can walk away and let the whole catastrophic disappointment go up in flames along with the easel and everything that encompasses me. Then there I will stand in the smoke of what could’ve been aimlessly wondering about what the future has in store for someone like me. Or I can now spray it with workable fixative and put a title on these ashes and hang it up for all that it is worth. Maybe time will varnish the imagery carved in heavy relief, embedded in my brain. Maybe I will forget the blisters and burns suffered from feeble attempts and muster up the courage to try again. I shall call it love and it will be a reminder of how it left me hanging in the gallows, a cautionary warning to all to be weary of allowing your heart to paint a picture beyond your minds comprehension
. No matter how diligent and meticulous one is when modeling a piece, there is always a chance of disaster and every time it slightly touched the probability is elevated. Every stroke and strike taken must be pondered over and executed precisely. Even then so, maybe your not the right artist to convey such a concept and there is someone better to be commissioned.
My life is as such, something to be modeled and molded, but there are just somethings that don’t come out the way you thought they would. Love for example, is not always perfect and sometimes it can not be fixed. No matter how hard you try and how much you want it, it has to want you too!

Unborn Artist

I sympathize with those most like me; right hemisphere dominant. The ones who have nicotine and herbal addictions to help coexist with what seems to be an undiagnosed case of attention deficit disorder. In all reality it is the numerous brilliant concepts that torments our thoughts. Those of us who awake at dawn to see the sun rise because it captures the aesthetics that no man will ever be able to produce. On the brink of genius and the edge of insanity; we are artist.

We think differently, look differently, and most important we feel differently. We embody the creativity to empathize. We dare not argue with the ideologies of our character because the stereotypes are insanely correct for the most part. We all walk around with a backpack loaded with aspirations, waiting for our big break. Our hair locked in dreads due to the focus devoted to creating, there is no time for primping and probing to elevate the beauty that we all see in ourselves. There are those of us who sit in the coffee shop sipping tea and blogging, daydreaming that they were free lancing or finishing up a book of poetry. The ones downtown scrapping their performance earnings off the concrete, packing up a guitar and strumming along to the melodies of accomplishment. We are all that bold, all that brave, inside.

In the condition of our current society we are viewed as bums, people who can get themselves together. Generations of parents preached numerous speeches about how there were other degrees that would prove to be more lucrative than a BFA and how we are wasting their money.

So we cloak ourselves in drapes of creative opression and become average cookie cutter clones. Making a way everyday to scratch that itch. To tame the unmerciful yearning for something more. Something more fulfilling. Something productive, something to relieve the excess adrenaline. Waiting to feel, waiting to see, waiting to live.