Schoolbooks forgotten and the words of the teacher a background drone; I was the one starring out the classroom window, watching the sun dapple through the leaves. Watching cloud formations become a piano then a dragon, finally a bunny. I was an unexceptional student.
I think in colors and in pictures, my checkbook is never balanced and my favorite room is my studio. Cluttered as my studio is, people are submerged in the atmosphere and don’t want to leave. They say how wonderful it feels, how great the vibes. I make sure that my studio is free of negativity, for that is where I create. And creativity withers in negativity, whimpers in pessimism and dies in the harsh words of the biased, uninformed critic.
To be an artist is to be creative and often it infiltrates into more than one media. Once one discipline is learned it is easily transferred into other areas of artistic expression.
As I cut glass with Rachmaninoff flowing from the oversized speakers, my thoughts whirl around the next chapter of my novel, or the next page of the young adults book I am writing. I believe that creativity from one endeavor nourishes the next. Seemingly I cannot perform one without the other. A symbiotic relationship of ideas stimulated by the other.
It is difficult being an artist. But it would be worse if I weren’t.
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