I am in it with all my heart~Vincent van Gogh

I found this stream of consciousness in my notes, and thought I'd share. Even though I only wrote it a couple months ago (looking for ideas for a good artist statement), I was a little surprised going back and reading it again. I used to think my art was subject driven. I realize now that my concepts emerge during my process.

My own writing process is so similar to my painting process that I see them as virtually the same. I am a subtractive painter, and a subtractive writer. Writing and visual art are both expressions of the artist, depicting their human experience interacting with the universe—they are just expressed in different languages.

My creative process starts in my head. The ideas usually come late at night, and sometime when I am just waking up (only if I've been allowed to sleep as much as I can, and wake naturally, no alarm clocks allowed!!). My head is generally over-full with ideas. I've often expressed the longing for Professor Dumbeldoor's magical Pensieve, so I could have a little reprieve from the massive chaos of images and words and noise in my head. 

My mission in creating, whether a picture painted with oil paint, or a picture painted with words, is to tame and organize the all those ideas and feelings into something cohesive that my viewer or reader will be able to connect to. My painting and writing is often a beacon call to those of like mind, with like experiences or feelings. Or, sometime it is an act of defiance against the dogma and societal rules and norms. In my defiance and rebellion I try to open my reader's mind to other possibilities and realities they have not experienced. I want them to walk in my shoes, and consider the alternative.

So I start with this jumble, and I scan it in my mind. Sometimes I have to consciously scan for quite sometime; it is a genuine struggle. I instinctively want to just run and hide and quiet the noise. Perhaps this is why so many artists struggle with substance abuse. The only places I find quiet is either in the act of creating or under the influence. Not even chocolate or a good piece of artisan crusty bread with real butter, can quiet the storms in my mind.

Other times, my mind finds an idea and grabs on so tight, that it becomes close to an obsession. I can't sleep or socialize and help with kids' homework until I get it down on paper or canvas. This state is the magic many artists long for. Society depicts it as exclusive to artists, as if we operate on magic not available to "non creatives." (All human beings are creative, this idea that creativity is only bestowed on some genius chosen is rubbish!) In reality, this creative spark and magic of an idea coming out of thin air is a rare gift for anyone. It is random and unexpected to anyone capable of creating, which is really everyone. It's exciting and compulsive and utterly mad.

Once I have a good hold of an idea I will write it all down. I will write and write and write. It comes as naturally as breathing and has my complete focus. So much so, that my hearing dulls and my PTSD hypervigililence switches off. It is very difficult to pry me out of the bliss of complete focus. I can't even speak when I am writing or painting. Time absolutely stops. I don't feel the pain of writer's cramp, or my feet going numb while I stand in front of the easel. I don't get hungry or thirsty. Nothing else matters. It's just me and this idea I am trying to birth.

This zone I am describing usually comes to an end only when I have written a thousand words—completely covering my canvas in thick juicy paint. My creative mind thrives and blossoms with lack of pressure and structure. It's usually difficult to transition out...I'll hack away at the picture for too long trying to coax it back the life I felt it had just a minute ago. But my words fail me and my paints are spent. At this point I am usually dehydrated, hungry and exhausted. Hours, days, sometimes weeks and months have gone by and I realize the house is a mess, and I haven't acknowledged the outside world for too long. The blessed quiet of complete focus recedes as the noise and demands and flood of distractions return. I hate that part.

After an adequate time of rest, I return to my this glob of mess I have birthed.

There are those rare times when it's totally perfect the way it is. It makes perfect sense. It's readable. Often it is rather dramatic or poignant. It's never boring. I make minor corrections in spelling or sentence structure. In paint that translates to minor correction of drawing...a dab or color here and there to express better harmony or discord. But again, those rare times are gifts that for me, are few and far between.

Most of the time, my picture is an utter incoherent mess. I usually have to ask myself some important questions, again applying to both my painting and my writing!

1) What am I trying to say?

This is the most important component of the piece. Painters call this the focal point, where a crescendo meets critical mass, or where the creator wants their audience to look and remember. It's the entire point of the creation. Everything else is secondary. The secondary elements shouldn't be as descriptive, as sharp, with as much contrast of the rest of the piece. Everything must point to the reason this was created in the first place. Look over here!This is what I want you to know or see!

2) Where is my rhythm?

Not everything needs to be a crescendo. When everyone is shouting, no one is heard. Rhythm means I need to guide my audience carefully to where I want them to go, or what I want them to see. I want to give viewers room to explore, places to rest their eyes and minds. I want to build them up and prepare them to understand my meaning.

3) How do I simplify?

In both painting and writing, My personal tastes run toward less is usually more. A lively picture shouldn't say too much, leaving space for the eye and mind to fill in the blanks, making the piece uniquely the viewer's own. I don't want to describe it so much, that my viewers and readers can't use their own unique set of perceptions and experience to add to the composition.

For me, art is a paradox of full collaboration between the creator, subject, and their audience, all while being a completely private and personal expression of each. I creat to connect. I also create to separate myself as unique and individual. So I must subtract for my piece to achieve these paradoxical objectives.

Answering these three questions really helps me to refocus and use my more analytical skills that are necessary to chip away at my work; much like a carver whittling everything that is unnecessary. I move paragraphs, as deliberately as I chip away at my paint. Sometimes I add a few strokes or words for clarity, but this stage is mostly and deductive process. It isn't nearly as intense as the initial birthing. I think about it. I work at it. I put it down.

I start asking for others' opinions (just general questions, nothing too technical). What are your thoughts? How does it make you feel? Is it making sense? Is it too long? Does it need more or less? I slowly start to mold my child into what I feel it should be, all while being careful to allow it to keep its integrity and authenticity. I never want to reign in or edit my idea too much.

In the next session or stage, I make corrections. Spelling grammar, usage. In a painting I correct drawing errors, adjust edges. Sometimes this is a flurry of activity again, reminiscent of my initial putting down of ideas. If so, as I make corrections, clarity returns and I finish with a dramatic, satisfying declarative sentences and brush strokes.

Other times, the last correction process is very anticlimactic. I realize my creation is pretty much already there. This can be a tricky end because sometimes I miss the drama and feel I may have missed something. I can keep hacking away at the work even though I'm quite finished—looking for that satisfaction of saying all I wanted to say. This can mean disaster for a painting. But for a writing project, I tend to save most of my initial draft, making it easier to return to the simpler and perfectly acceptable creation. But more often than not, something get's lost in the translation, in trying to step back. There is no undo for the carver who has stripped away too much. There is no return to the spontaneity of a created straight from the heart.

While this may seem a sad end to such a tremendous process, it can also be a tremendous learning experience in trust my creative voice. When my work fails, "an artist fit" usually ensues. This means weeping and waling and gnashing of teeth from the grief of having forever lost something good, something real, something valuable. There is this tremendous grief for the hours invested seemingly for nothing. Life becomes meaningless and dark when I don't get to say what I wanted to say. Angry internal voices of doubt and shame add to the clutter rattling in my mind. And life is simply horrible...

Until acceptance finally creeps in to start soothing my wounded soul. I accept that I messed up. I accept that I'm no genius. I accept that it's ok *not* to be extraordinary. I accept that I can only ever be me, and that I, like my creations, are a work in progress. With acceptance comes a little levity. I will start laughing at my so so serious nature. I start to realize another day will come, with new ideas to capture and develop.

I might even write about it. I find a good book or article to read. I might go out painting in a beautiful field on a beautiful day with a beautiful friend. And we will eat good food, and have a drink and laugh at this curse that the gift of passion brings.  And in the process of painting or writing or reading or collaborating I'll realize that it was the process I enjoyed far more than the finished product.

I'll realize my creation died because I was so afraid of letting it go—I was so afraid of saying goodbye. I was so afraid that this work would be the last thing the world would have to remember me bye. And fear is the antithesis of creativity.

I consciously let go of the fear through acceptance. And I return to the beginning. I start to look at all that noise in my head, and find something to hang onto—something asking to be created—something that needs to be born.