Tag Archives: creativity

What = Art?

I am baking in the sun on Piedmont Avenue in Oakland. I brought a notebook and pen with me to do laundry, hoping I could force myself
to write for a stretch of time with no distractions. It kind of worked. I wrote a few pages of blithering miasma.

I’ve been in a gap, no creative inspiration, because there’s nothin to process out, and apparently for me, processing is the fire starter for my work. Right now, it’s just humdrum getting through no fun things like having gaps in income and helping my husband file our divorce papers. Taking stuff out of storage to save a few bucks, not knowing what to do with paraphernalia like my wedding dress which is ensconced in a giant memento box, the jewel cases to all of my cds, and my first guitar, which is broken and living inside a hard case.

There is only so much that will fit into a little room. And there is only so much I can afford for expenditures. It’s a negative slope right now, nightmares about getting stiffed. Hitting a wall with where to pitch for freelance gigs. Hitting a wall for what to do with my writing or music.

I’m subletting a friends practice space for a month and a half, and will basically live there when not in my cheapie room, in order to make as much music as I can. The other day I took a nap on the dingy floor. “Ew,” said a friend, when I told her. “Who knows what goes on on those practice space floors.”

But I’m tired. So tired.

And I’m waiting. Waiting for something…

Trying to ascertain whether my life is an upward climb or a slow backslide. On any given day, it could be either or.

I have no expectations for my future, only wants. Any meaningful lyric I could write has already been written by Robert Smith. Hats off to him for succeeding in conveying everything I feel exactly, like a mouthpiece muse to my inner existential crisis.

I have friends recuperating from surgery, alcoholism, careers and relationships. Seems everything is in a state of slow, subtle flux.

The caverns inside that house my art are currently echo chambers. My brain does not know what to make of these black hole gaps. Hello? Hello in there?

It will come back. In survival mode we shut down. I saw a sign the other day that said Art = Life, but the Art was crossed out and underneath someone had written Food and Shelter = Art.

Flights of Fancy

I promised I would talk about the insanity of the creative mind. First of all, it’s only insanity to the larger world out there because it’s not linear and doesn’t make sense to people who think inside a certain framework. Of course, I am pigeonholing by saying all writers and musicians are insane…

Not “that” kind of insane…the other kind.

Let me speak to the ones I have personally met, which is more than a few handfuls, basically around the West Coast. Of the musicians and writers I’ve met, I’ve noticed a theme. Largely, an intolerance for conformity. A different way of thinking that you have to be pretty open to understand, or at least open to being open to understanding. Most just don’t get it, unless they are it.

I’ll speak to one aspect of “crazy” pertinent to my own artistic mind.

Like many writers, I am prone to wild flights of fancy, or shall I just say fantasy. I have complete enactments in my head which I swear to god are real. I have lived entire lives through my imagination. I may be more crazy than most writers and musicians I know, frankly, but I can’t really say, because many of the musicians and writers I know are imbibing substances I am not imbibing. This affects things and makes it harder to assess what we’re working with here.

For example, I remember when I wanted to be a tattoo artist. This happened about three years ago. I’d been living a relatively dry, boring life in El Cerrito—a stark contrast to my four years in San Francisco where everything was always hopping and there was plenty to do, see and be—tending my grandparents garden, walking around hilly neighborhoods with ‘50s style ranch houses built in random formation around seemingly unplanned cul-de-sac loops. I could see San Francisco from the hills, on a non-cloudy day. Most days were pretty foggy. I looked out at the city and couldn’t believe once upon a time I’d been there and not where I was now standing.

I hadn’t gotten a new tattoo for over five years. I started thinking maybe I’d get a bird. I was getting some extra cash from freelancing, and I hadn’t had extra cash in years, having been either unemployed or sick for almost two. I decided to get one bird, on my stomach, by the left nautical star. I started drawing outlines with marker to figure out if this was really the one I wanted to get.

My husband–ever the restrained one–told me I should get four birds, starting from my stomach and spreading up my ribs over my shoulder. While walking around Oakland, I stumbled into a shop a friend had recommended and I found myself remembering how awesome it was to be tattooed and be in the central hub of a tattoo shop, seeing and being seen. I had found my peeps again.

Because I was so thrilled to be part of a hub, I started dreaming of permanently being part of that hub. What if I become a tattoo artist, I thought, not remembering much about the extensive apprenticeships many artists go through before they find a shop they like and all the drama that can happen behind the scenes, all the internal hierarchy and hoops and the fact you actually have to know how to draw.

I bought myself a sketch pad and fantasized about meeting all the latest and greatest big tattoo artists—getting tattooed just because I was so cool they couldn’t resist adding ink to my skin. I started drawing for the first time in years. I inhaled every tattoo picture book I could find, falling deep into the world of Kat Von D’s diary.

Yep…I thought I was pretty awesome. Not to hard to go from sketch pad to skin, right?

This can’t be that hard, I thought, being a tattoo artist. Meanwhile, I started asking my tattoo artist questions about how he got started. I learned he’d started around my age and had had a hard time getting an apprenticeship where he wanted—people gave him shit. He had to earn his respect over time, just like in many other trades, except this was a bunch of artists with their own devil-may-care rules and proprieties.

I walked around for a few weeks, excited by the prospects and what I knew was decidedly my destiny. Then I checked out a couple more books by tattoo artists and started reading. I read about tattooing grapefruits and your own skin for the first time, about all the tricks your shop mates can play on you in the beginning, about how hard it is to learn to ink skin and how you often have to experiment on your friends first.

I read about crazy people and hard work and drawing, drawing, drawing. I read about a man who tattooed his wife until the day he died. I read about a girl who got in with bad boys and became tattooed head to toe before becoming a tattoo artist herself in Montana. I read about a guy who owned a late-night shop in Portland. I read the history of a local celebrity tattoo artist. I fantasized about being on their level, even though I was already 29 years old and hadn’t drawn much in my life at all since I was 11. My sketch book drawing by this time filled about two entire pages. Roses, and a day of the dead skull.

Then, as quickly as the desire to be a tattoo artist came, it was gone.

I’ve had the same flights of fantasy with other things—SEO marketer, professional vagabonder, National Geographic photographer, acupuncturist, doctor, chef, nutritionist, college-level creative writing teacher. One thing has stuck, however, and that is the title of writer/musician. No matter what wild flights of fantasy I have about other things, I keep creating stuff. Hell, I think my imagination is what keeps me able to write about things—tell stories and put myself in other people’s shoes. It makes shit interesting. Because I’ve been there in my head I can pretend I know what I’m talking about and actually believe I do.

I guess that doesn’t illustrate me as crazy, only as having an extensive imagination. When I picture something I AM it for a while; I become it. It seems inevitable. And then as quickly as I decide that  this is my reality, it’s gone: I no longer care about it at all.

So far, since the separation started happening, I’ve lived in Baja, traveled to Jamaica to teach music to children, moved into my friend’s empty room in England, hiked the Pacific Crest Trail, relocated to Seattle, been flown on an assignment to Boston and New York City, gone on a tour with my music…

Fantasy is what’s keeping me functioning at this point. Fantasy is what mires me in the sane, because without fantasy, I would surely go left. Far left.

No Rhyme, No Reason

There is no rhyme or reason to any of these blog updates. My philosophy is that if I tap into whatever I feel like writing, I’ll find some root subconscious thing that needs to be shared with whoever stumbles upon/subscribes to this blog and voila, serendipity is at work.

I know I talked a lot about kettlebell last week. Truth is, I’m kind of burnt from my trip right now and I don’t really want to write more about kettlebell right now, only this update: I did exactly what I set out to do. I set a personal record in competition, (100 reps with the 16kg bell) made it onto the Hawaii news (where they totally misreported the rules of a kettlebell competition, saying that you can set down a bell in the middle of your ten-minute set which is not true at all) and was one of the first to get certified as a kettlebell instructor by the fabulous Orange Kettlebell Club, which consists of John Wild Buckley, Jason Dolby and Nazo.

I survived Hawaii…

I am now at home. Spent today alternately sleeping off the cold/cough I caught and proofing some writing I have going live in a little bit: a column for a music trade magazine and 6 poems for Analog Press. (And a poem was accepted in Gutter Eloquence, too. Huzzah!)

I couldn't stop thinking about music the entire trip.

One thing on my mind right now is human beings and how every one of us is so odd, and how, me being me, I tend to like to be alone, a lot, because people are hard to be around in large doses. There is not one person I don’t get tired of if I spend too much time with them. But at the same time, I need people, and sometimes they’re OK.

I think a lot of creative people are like this. We need so much space. And we tend to be really hard on ourselves to begin with, constantly doubting our own abilities, so when other people are critical of us, it’s like a double whammy.

I learned a lot about myself in Hawaii–mostly that it doesn’t matter what other people think, it’s important to stand up for yourself, and make sure you take care of your own needs (things I’m not necessarily very good at yet) and that the world isn’t necessarily going to change, that we all have to do some things we don’t like, we have to learn to deal with it and keep doing our thing for the sake of doing our thing.

Most of these lessons came through conversations with a lovely artist/kettlebeller from Colorado, who I had the benefit of spending some time with walking back and forth from the hotel to the gym. Also, I’m a music nerd, and it was nice to be able to chat with someone about sampling and orchestration and I really think she needs to make me a list of obscure bands I’ve never heard of, so I can read up on them.

I also appreciated my walks/car rides with my coach (friend) Juliet–she has these amazing insights that she throws out all nonchalantly while we’re walking and that I end up chewing on for hours afterwards. She’s just a cool person. We were talking about money and the like, and I was saying I felt guilty about coming to Hawaii when it wasn’t really the most responsible thing for me. She told me to a) stfu and enjoy the free hotel and the hefty discount on certification and b) that I’ve chosen music and writing, and it’s not lucrative, and I know this, but I’ve also chosen to be happy, because these things make me happy, so be happy. Stop looking at the glass half empty and all I don’t have. I made a concerted effort, and was partially successful, though I still managed to piss everyone off a couple of times.

It’s what happens. I look all pretty and shiny from far away, but you get to know me and well, I’ll let this poem I like explain the phenomonon:

The Poet’s Lie, by Mike Hilbig

***

Since the entire island of Hawaii is one giant bottle of soy sauce (made of wheat, and I’ve got a problem it seems, with gluten), it was tough to navigate food. Didn’t even foresee that being a problem, I thought I’d be chowing on pineapple and coconut and mango. Turns out that smoothies are harder to come by than one might think. Everything from “our credit card machine is down, cash only” to “oh, we just ran out of fruit.”

Some local told me the vog (smog from the volcanoes) was really bad this weekend, and a lot of people they knew were having allergies. My nose was alternately pouring snot and/or stuffed up, and my throat sore. But these are kind of normal issues with me, things that happen to me everywhere I go. It was just more intense being thousands of miles away from home without all my creature comforts. I was never so happy to see the signs reading Oakland in my life. Home sweet home. The food here is nowhere near as expensive as Hawaii and it tastes very good. Nothing like a little living without to make you appreciate what you have, right?

I went to the beach two times. Hiked a bit of the pillbox trail with Sarah and Ada and Danielle, two kettlebellers and a crossfit lady I got to know a little better on the trip. Stared at a blue beach on the windward side for a few minutes; took a picture of Sarah on the beach looking all peaceful.

Was happy to go back home. Even happier to be going to Seattle and Portland in May to see Kirsten and also thinking about hitting up the kettlebell competition while I’m there, to get the 106 reps for Master of Sport. I just have to make sure I do the actual freelance work I’m supposed to be doing while I’m there, don’t want to over plan and muck up my paying work.

I’m supposed to go into the studio this week, twice, and also read a piece of writing at East Bay on the Brain on Saturday night.

I’m pretty scattered, still, spent the day in bed mostly, brain fried. Trying to get back on my program. Pick up my guitar, get back into music recording mode…etc. etc.

Life moves on.

Choosing Strangers vs. Affecting Your Own Microcosm

Having a blog is unnerving.

Firstly, because you cannot write poignant beautiful essays every single day, I’m sorry. Just not possible.

Two, because in order to get readers, it almost has to be a first-person column weaving in personal tales from your life you definitely don’t want your coworkers, potential colleagues or family reading.

But isn’t that the issue any writer has? The stuff that is off limits is the most intriguing stuff?

Continue reading →

Weekly Feature: Liz Van Pay, Music Journalist

For the weekly feature this week, I’ve picked Liz Van Pay, a cool chick I interviewed for an article about tattoos in Bound by Ink magazine. While interviewing her I was blown away by how easy she was to talk to. She had a particularly mellow vibe that I was drawn to, and though she is still in her twenties, she seemed extremely wise for her years. I especially love how she has managed to do what many creative people do best — channel her life experiences into art. 

Weekly Feature: Interview with the Minds Behind UK PoV Magazine

I’m always on the lookout for interesting people to interview here on The Stifled Artist for the weekly feature titled, Creative People Who Rock(because I’m brilliant at coming up with names for things).Mainly, I look for people who are defying the norm and engaging in their creative endeavors in spite of realities, like having day jobs or not receiving anything monetarily for their efforts. In a society that is increasingly finance driven in regards to how creative we are allowed to be, Ben and Chris are putting together a high-quality magazine to showcase the work of a wide variety of talented people, with no monetary consolation whatsoever. I can’t wait to read the first issue, and not just because my poems will be in it. It will also include work by a number of other talented people. You can read more about the lineup on the PoV news feed.

You Need Chaos in Your Soul

You need chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star.
–Friedrich Nietzsche

I spend a lot of time involved in wild flights of fantasy, where I imagine strange and extraordinary things occurring, meeting the right people in the right places, magical results coming from little creations. And when I’m imagining these things, I believe that they are real – for a few moments. Continue reading →

Stop Asking For Permission

My husband bought me this sweater as a gift, maybe
you've seen this Banksy print before
it inspires me
because
I picture myself as the girl in the picture
running around spreading the message
to keep doing
creative stuff that you love
no matter what  

Even though I feel like I'm standing
in the middle of the desert
blaring a loudspeaker message
only a passing iguana might hear
I don't ever shut up
I want you and I to achieve our goals
I don't want you or I to give up

I waited most of my life
for other people
to tell me it was okay
to go ahead and publish my writing
to record my music
to share it with others
But they never did
So I had to tell myself
it was OK
and it is

Writing is Stupid

*Because of some strange reactions to this post, I have had to insert this disclaimer, as you can see by the commenter down below who proclaimed that a large body of literature disagrees with “my little rant.” The beauty of the internet is that you can write something in hyperbole, trying to play with the concept of something going on in your brain at a given moment, and people can take offense, think you mean it literally to offend. I shouldn’t have to say that I am a writer, and so if I really believed this “little rant” (satirical extremes I’m sure many people have thought at times when they were being very dramatic and prospects seemed difficult in the writing world) that would be plain silly. But I’ll let you, intrawebs, decide whether or not you will crucify me or catch my drift for this “little rant.” The more negative reaction I get from it, the less I want to take it down, because this seems like bludgeoned ignorant censorship.

The more I read this and think people took it literally, the more I shake my head and think, “Wow.” I love my writing group, and I love writing. But sometimes, writing feels silly, and I like to play around with opposites. I think the issue here is that people are putting themselves into this rant, for whatever ungodly reason, thinking I am actually ranting against them, when I’m actually making fun of myself. It seems to hit a personal nerve for some, so much so that they don’t even get through to the last part where it argues against itself FOR writing. 

***

I am not going to write anymore. I give up. Writing is stupid.

Writing is a solo act. A single spectator sport for wanderers, gypsies, people who won’t make it in the real world. Vagrants and vagabonds and drifters. Fringe people. Unless you’re not fringe and you write. Then it’s for clusters of perfect people who sit in towers with calligraphy pens, holding their martini glasses with their fingers just so, pinky jutting out, laughing with each other, ha ha ha, look at my work, I’m a star, I’m a stud, I’m the best. Darling, darling, you’re a natural, you really are. Have some drugs, oh yes, I don’t mind if I do. I’m a star, I really am.

Writing is ornery. It’s like pulling an elephant up a mountain by the tail: impossible.

Writing is a stilted endeavor, skewed by the inferior perspective of a person on their own looking out at the world through a filter they don’t even necessarily know exists. Writing doesn’t usually pay the bills, except for a select few lucky people, those who get all the accolades and the curses from the audience at once.

I’m not going to go to a writing group anymore. It’s just a bunch of us vainly fantasizing and spewing debris through pens on the page. It’s like our pens are shitting ink, useless ink farts. Who wants to read ink farts, anyhow? And nobody ever comes, anyway, because writing is silly. Why bother. Why take the time. Writing is selfish and hopeless and vain. We’re not going anywhere, and we’re doing it together.

Nope, I’m never going to write again because there is nothing to write about. And if there was something to write about, I wouldn’t want to write about it because it wouldn’t mean much, just a whimsy, just a flight of fancy, just a selfish soliloquy performed in a desert full of skittering lizards who never cross paths. Besides, it never comes out just perfect on the page at first attempt. It should just flow from my fingertips, like I’m a scribe to the gods, like I’m tapped into something marvelous and fascinating, not this revision, revision, revision BS.

Writing is a hollow, pretentious duty, performed by too many people competing for too little outlets. If you write, you’re doomed to fail. There are too many unreachable galaxies, too few people able to fly.

Every day, someone picks up a pen. Why? Writing is a process, writing is a hope. Wait, I thought writing sucked, that I wasn’t going to do it anymore. But writing makes people feel better.

Writing helps people connect, relate, regurgitate. It helps people process excessive amounts of stimuli from their lives in whichever way they feel they need to. 

Writing may be good for something. Ok. Fine. I’ll write. But just for me. Just for today. And don’t think I’m going to like it. I’m going to hate every minute of it and I’m going to write crap on the page, just to make you happy. Oh, hey! I wrote an entire blog post about not wanting to write. How quaint.

Photo credit: Tommy the Pariah