No Running Allowed :: The Power of Words in An Art Practice

Man Ray: A man in love with a woman from a different era. I see a photograph!

Luis Buñuel: I see a film!  

Gil: I see an insurmountable problem!

Salvador Dalí: I see rhinoceros!

- Woody Allan
Midnight in Paris

I've never been able to meditate without falling asleep, but I've been told that letting go of thoughts isn't really the point.  When I am working on a piece my brain rolls into something akin to a meditative state.  It isn't quiet exactly.  Superimposed images, like the love scenes in Indian films, where two flowers merge, evaporate into whispered thoughts of an intangible something that find their resting place in the work.  My focus is concentrated, not easily disturbed by external nor internal noise, balanced in the frame, and agitated if awakened.  I only know any of this once the cycle of creating is completed.

If that flow is not disturbed, if all is allowed, immediately after my session I'm so euphoric that I am rendered worthless.   Nothing I say to another human being will make any sense.  I have been having an internal dialogue with myself.   

I've often observed that many artists are attracted to various forms of science.  This is certainly true for me.  With all things new in my life here in Mexico, I've decided to conduct research on my own creative process by noting what is the first full thought that comes to mind once the euphoria has dissipated.  What is surprising to me is that these thoughts are questions, and that these questions are related to the work in progress.  Here are two examples: 

Have you ever wished you had just stayed inside on a hot summer day?  As soon as you open the front door a choking heatwave rolls up your nostrils and you damn the fact that you have to head out for groceries or whatever.  Add to the hellish heat, a bug of some sort decides that one of your body cavities is their preferred portal to its' suicide.  Opening the door slowly lessens the chance of being scorched.

Have you ever taken something that wasn't yours?  Each time you look at the stolen object there is a little something that let's you know you will never own it.  Why do people do this, take something they can never fully be present with?  And not just with things, but with human hearts.  It seems like madness to think you can own another person. 

What The Hell?  Doesn't your brain just tickle you to pieces??!!

Create the life you want!

The Broad

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