When I think about Jean-Michel Basquiat, or Jackson Pollack or Ernest Hemmingway, I am tempted to believe something that isn't true. I really don't believe these people had higher emotional sensitivity than other humans. I really don't believe their right brain doomed them before they were born. When I think about the pressure/demand put on these artists, I get really angry...and then I realize my anger is coupled with fear.
Last week I flippantly told my bossy (I love her this way!) friend/mentor (who loves my art) that I "never want to be rich and famous".
She immediately said, "Take that back."
Pause.
I said, "I don't know if I want to take that back!"
Pause.
Again, she said, "Take that back."
Pause.
Again, I said, "I don't want to take that back!"
Pause.
Then she said, "Say 'I. take. that. back.', and then I'll tell you why."
Through an even longer Pause, I began to anticipate what she was going to tell me...and then suddenly I felt my own heart melt into a puddle. I took it back...and she didn't even have to tell me what she was going to say.
In my puddle moment, I realized that if I believe I am not my work (I really do), it is actually selfish of me to limit it by my own desires/fears in any way.
Then, just this week I thanked "A Flower" for receiving my drawing and poem. Part of me hesitated sharing it, because I worried she would have me committed or she would run like hell away from "the crazy artist". Instead, she graciously received it. And then she sent me this:
For Artists & Those Who Love Art (Bravo for sharing, Elizabeth Gilbert. I know the message transcends you.):
There is a distance between the artist and the work. Sometimes even I forget.
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