The Artist's Way

The man was stood in front of the canvas, scribbling tiny details on the side of his notebook.

The man was stood in front of the canvas, scribbling tiny details on the side of his notebook.

He was fully immersed in his work, forgetting about the world around him, which filled with noises of all kind tried to provide a space for distraction and take away his right to create. But he did not bother. Keeping his mind far beyond that, which was considered the earthly and present in the moment, he conveyed his visions to the pieces of craft materials, which lounged across the studio, offering a glimpse into his perception of reality and ideas of creativity. He felt the urge to pursue the abstract, which appealed to him ever since his works started to gain in style and personal touch. He reached for a razor-sharp blade of the knife, which resembling a surgeon’s scalpel provided the artist with a firm grip and smooth cuts, as it made its way pushing through the layers of paper. The cut reminded of a little paper cut on one’s finger, which after pushing it stronger on the sides, flourishes with waves of dark red blood. Of course, the canvas did not bleed at all. Instead the cuts and crunches of the paper offered a glimpse into the secondary nature of the material, that of the internal and external. Transforming the assumed ‘one layer paper’ into multiple layers, the artist was able to encounter surprise and provide the viewer with the feel of complexity and exclusiveness of each bent, crunch and pull being one of a kind, standing out alone, yet still a part of a bigger, more organic matter.

*

The man shuffled in his seat, leaning on a high stool, which provided him with support throughout the long hours of work. He never felt the time passing by, as it was. It all depended on the situation and the state of his heart. Sometimes the day was gone before it truly began, as the man felt such inspiration and deep truthfulness to his craft, that forgetting about the world, he worked away until the street lamps outside his studio’s window flashed their signs of the late hour, making him groan and murmur, as he felt the work should still continue. He rarely felt tired or hungry, and only at times of struggle with the work he found himself wander back and forth to the studio’s kitchen area, like a cat which without anything else to do goes back and forth checking again and again the insides of it’s bowl. At times when work did not go easy, the man felt time more vividly, trying to reason with its extremely slow pace and lack of mercy towards his misery. During those days, the only thing that mattered was the time spent in the studio, no matter the outcome. The artist squabbled unpleasant commentaries towards himself, but with a bitten lip, again and again tried to resume, continue, finish or start yet another of his multiple pieces. Sometimes the work worked, sometimes it didn’t.

*

The man rarely felt satisfied and for those rare moments, when his effort and time compelled a piece that suddenly caressed his humble heart, he felt grateful hundred folds and felt at peace with himself. The cessation of the urge to create lasted only briefly and soon enough a new idea emanated within his Self, making everything grey again, starting a new pursuit of the beauty and appraisal for the world of form. He loved what he did. Believing in passion and persistence, he offered his time and comfort of the life of the lazy, in exchange for a deeper understanding of his own nature and existential discourse between ‘who am I’ and ‘who I want to become’. The striving for new creation made him stronger, more satisfied with his life and ultimately a better person, as through his quiet practice, he was able to recognise the struggle and gain more understanding towards other beings, which participated in life around him. This inner harmony emanated in radiant colours of compassion and appreciation towards life and all its forms, making the artist grateful not only for his existence but also for the existence of all others. The man did aspire for his own success, but as he sometimes pondered, there was many faces of success and none of them was whole. His own vision did not fold into any other of the ideas he heard either. He appreciated having his own space, dreamt about organizing exhibitions and wanted a fair amount of funds to be able to live and create without worries about the next day or week. This is not to say, he did not appreciate appraisal. He was grateful of all the warm words aimed at his art and felt strong satisfaction whenever one of his works sold for a good price. But that was not his goal as per se. Reminding himself of all those times when work went hard, when struggle was overwhelming and the money was absent, he felt the need to appraise the moments of satisfaction of his own craft, no matter the possible gain afterwards. The destination was already attained; the success already present in his life; the ultimate goal fulfilled – he was living the life of an artist, felt love towards his work and joy whenever he walked towards his studio in the morning.

To live life the artist’s way he reminded himself from time to time, that is the dream.

Also check out my other story:

https://www.wsalski.com/post/memories

#artistlife #creativewriting #storyfromlife