Sometimes the gift of creativity can be paralyzing.
There are so many questions, so many second guesses, so many millions of iterations to any one creative path, and so much based on intuition that if the feeling just isn’t right, the muse escapes our grasp. But my background in fine art has ingrained in me the idea that everything is art. No matter what it is, where it comes from, what it’s been through, everything is art. I don’t have the capacity to feel life like this all the time. To do so would be exhausting. But it is a mantra I can’t shake when the complexities of life start to get to me…
And then the wheels start turning…
There is a side to all things that remains hidden from view depending on where you are standing. You can never physically see the whole side of everything.
That is art.
There are concepts in this world that we simply cannot understand. We can’t wrap our brains around all ideas.
This is overwhelming. That sensation is art.
Inspiration isn’t necessarily something that you need to derive from something else. It is just there and it exists within the woven threads of our system.
Understanding that everything is art means that every little fiber, every strand, every cell, is art. A human can no more make or create art than a particle of matter can be achieved or demolished. We are all art. We are made of art. Art is a state of being for all things, tangible or not.
When you look at life like this, it becomes difficult to turn off the sensation of art being all around us. Every feeling, every emotion, every word, every mistake…. The trivial and the benign and the massive, great, and all-encompassing. The gum stain on the sidewalk and the dirty needles in the gutter. These things remind us that we are human, that we have feeling, intuition, constructs or illusions of purpose. We’ve crafted concrete confines and built bulletproof boxes to hold all of it in, to keep it from spilling out, but we can’t hide it all the time.
When feelings threaten to overwhelm us, or sometimes we feel like we can’t improve, or maybe even can’t go on any longer… Knowing that there is an art behind those intimations can be infuriating, wretched, and belittling. It can make you feel so entirely small that your actuality might just disappear with an unequivocal gust of wind…
But when you recognize that you are made of art, that your feelings are beautiful and that you are that muse, and that you are not alone, you can find comfort in knowing that art is all around you. That you are the very fiber of inspiration and that even if nothing matters in the end, you were somehow an integral part of all of this.