The Artistic Soul
… finding her deep, down, and dirty at the bottom of the well
I remember the first time I plainly heard the words “I am an artist” echo within my soul. I stood alert, swallowing with anticipation for the customary sharp bite of repudiation from my inner critic. It didn’t come. Instead the words “I am an artist” felt reassuring as if, after making a wish, I had been waiting for a long, long time to hear the drop of the coin falling down the deepest well. Waiting, waiting, waiting. And suddenly…there, that sound of water gulping…soft maybe, but distinct and unforgettable.
It was not for seeking knowledge that Eve was ejected from the Garden of Eden; it was for seeking her own soul. Suzanne Bussard*
I was attending a 2 week workshop called something along the lines of Women and Art at Pacific Oaks College in Pasadena. I learned about the history of women in the arts and how for ages women were not allowed to take credit for their creations. Most of the time a man close to the woman would take credit for the work in part because it was expected that women did not, and should not, have talent. The practice also kept women safe from the enforcers of cultural mores.
I also learned about the artistic process of women — how it meanders like a crooked path into a gloaming wilderness. I could relate to that so much because when I would…
