There are only two kinds of artists.
Those who create to escape and those who create to connect.
I’m a connector.
I thought writing tv reviews would help learn to be an escape artist. As it turns out, I cannot even write ‘So last week on Falling Skies…’ without wanting to run and hide.
When I was younger I’d get the chalk from pastels all over my furniture and my walls. Even after I had an easel in my room I still managed to find evidence of my midnight draw-fests in random places on my walls.
Incidentally, never liked oil pastels as much as chalk. Perhaps I secretly like to make a mess.
And beads, lord, beads everywhere. Whoever now lives in the house in which I grew up is likely still finding beads buried in the carpets.
To not create something on a daily, if not momentary, basis is death for an artist.
There is no one forcing me from the stitch or pen. So this isn’t murder.
This lack of creation is the only evidence of my mental suicide.
Perhaps a gruesome metaphor, but still an apt one.