I generally don’t like to write articles that are personal. I understand that everything that someone chooses to write about or discuss is as much an autobiographical portrait as any other self-aggrandizing bit, but turning inwards for inspiration is counter intuitive for me.
Anyway, on to the point. I have been a painter for as long as I could hold a brush and I have often found solace in the immersion and self-absorption that occurs when one is very focused on painting–or working in any medium for that matter. I lived off of the continual cycle, the ritual if you will, of inspiration, refinement, and execution of the work. Although the themes were constant for me, the paintings always had something new to say about me or to me.
Lately though, for the past year and a half or so, I haven’t felt like painting. Like all artists, I’ve had periods of time during which I step back and allow my thoughts to gather–some call this procrastinating, but I disagree. Eventually, something would surface and after the proper devotional time, a painting would emerge, perhaps successfully or less so, but still a final product.
I still have ideas, plenty of them, but the drive is lacking. I have concluded, perhaps falsely so, that most of what needs to be said within the field of painting has been said. I grew tired of rehashing the same themes and concepts. They now are hollow to me and that concerns me because I want to create and feel again that energy that courses through every artists soul as they channel whatever Muse they may lay claim to.
This isn’t a simple matter that can be remedied by all of the old tricks but instead a darkness that follows closely at my heels. It will pass I am sure and I perhaps may be stronger for it but the mere idea of creating–not just applying paint to a canvas but really investing myself within the work–instills nothing within me…no excitement. Nada.
The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.