Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Silent Muse Cold Inspiration

The studio was so cold.

I didn't want to pull of and strip down naked for my art. Too much chill in the air for that. But I pulled off the nice work blouse and the nice work jacket anyway and stood in the middle of my space.

I grab my raggedy black t-shirt with the paint splatter inflection of a thousands previously spilled thoughts. I pull it on to ward of the chill, on over cold flesh prickling at the touch.

I studied the walls. My walls. The walls are covered with caustic explosion. My thoughts made real, my visions, my dreams, standing and staring at me.

An experiment when I started it, now something that has taken shape. Three flowers sprouting in the frozen room, color vivid, real, pulsing, non-organic living things created for my whimsy and exploration of a form.

I look at the flowers to find the missing space that need to be completed. I fill my buckets with freezing water trying to avoid my hands as I spill into the carafe. Ice water on my hands will freeze me in the cold room and Ill get no art done. I pour carefully to leave myself outside the liquid chill. I create my own illusion in the space.

Three pieces up and three pieces down. I sign my name as an ending and as a beginning. Three pieces down means more go up and I can start on something new.

But what to paint.

I have no idea. I stare at blank canvas on my walls at a loss to create.

Sometimes it is so easy to go up. I go up and I know what Im making its there. With me. An unnamed thing that is part of my thought space; eyes that glint crocked from an ancient shock, a demon, a goad, a lip curled and waiting to praise or sneer. A muse. Sometimes I go up and I know exactly what I want to create, its there in my hands and its waiting for me.

Tonight my muse is silent and I am left with the silent thunder that is the cold, and the room, and the loneliness of early evening without a vision. I flip through pieces, pictures, models gone, forgotten, out of my time space.

I land on one set, a set of three of a soft bodied model with the most exquisite curves. I remember the shape of her neck and the way that her breast fell and they were crocked and uneven. She sat drying after a shower in my apartment.

"Are you going to do this?" she asks me.

"Are you ready?"

"Yeah, I guess." She pushes herself on the bed and she doesn't say anything but I can see in her knowing discomfort. She doesn't know what to expect and is afraid of what my camera might see. My camera will show what is really there and there is a moment of hesitation.

"How much do we really want to see the truth?"

I finish a set of more then a dozen images.

"Can I see them?" she asks looking over my shoulder but I hold her off.

"Let me finish." Photos are fickle. The color is not true to what the eye sees. I adjust the lights and the shadows, no more. I take nothing out and put nothing in. I just adjust the lights and the shadows. Light and dark.

I show her the photos and her azure eyes sparkle back at her as she leans naked over my shoulder with soft breast pushing into my own skin.

"It's..." and she pauses.

"Wow, it's not like I expected."

The best praise and artist can get. It was a year ago, more, less, I don't remember. Such a long time since she lay naked on my bed to have her photo snapped with reluctance and a smile. I think I told her not to smile so much.

"It ruins it. It comes of as forced. Just relax."

I stumble across the pictures in the cold and I think yes. I want to paint softness and curves and all things that are beautiful and voluptuous and that make us what we are. Human varying of shape and size and feel, beautiful in our soft curves and our strangeness.

I started the set while my hands started to turn from warm to cold. By the time I left my hands were as rigid as my nipples from the over-exposure and though I was not finished I left the pieces to set.

Who knows what they will become. Softness and flesh and will. If my muse speaks better to me hopefully they will become something more.

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