I sent this email to my close friend P recently and it brought up a connection that I hadn't quite thought about in my thinking and my habits:
Kind of like painting. Well color me dumb! I hadn't thought of my painting as a conversation. This may be an obvious conclusion to many, but to me, until that moment of writing that phrase to my friend, I hadn't quite thought of it that way. What's the significance? I think it can tell me why I don't paint anymore.
For me, the itch to hold a sharp pencil, watercolor paint brush or India ink pen in my hand over a clean, textured, pristine white piece of paper was an uncontrollable urge from about the age of 2 to 16! It was a hunger, a taste in my mouth, a pleasure, an orgasm. It was something I couldn't do without. And then I stopped. I often say that Music and Art High School cured me of it. But really I miss it like a lost lover, a relationship you can't reconstruct. Any attempt to do so without full understanding and growth would be a parody. Who wants to revisit pain? I haven't wanted it enough to do that.
I watch my niece in love with her love and remember. I wonder if she thinks of it this way.
So, a conversation that ended? I really like that image. It's been in the periphery of my vision for a while. Thank you P.
Thanks for the compliment. I am not that great a writer. I try to make it sound like talk. You should email me or start a blog. I would definitely read it! For me it clears my head. I converse with friends, but it is a burden to a conversation to say every little picture that's in your head. Conversations are about mutual social rewards. I find writing about purging and meditative contemplation. It doesn't have to be phemonenal or deep or secret (I try to avoid confessions that I don't want public). It's more about observation. Kind of like painting.
When I was painting there were public paintings and private paintings. The same was true when I was in the frame of mind to write poetry. I kind of went through those phases. I think I will blog about this subject later. It's also the closest we've come to the letter writing of the 18th and 19th centuries.
The funny thing is that the private-on-paper writing I have done sounds more like whining to me. I end up tossing it out!
Kind of like painting. Well color me dumb! I hadn't thought of my painting as a conversation. This may be an obvious conclusion to many, but to me, until that moment of writing that phrase to my friend, I hadn't quite thought of it that way. What's the significance? I think it can tell me why I don't paint anymore.
For me, the itch to hold a sharp pencil, watercolor paint brush or India ink pen in my hand over a clean, textured, pristine white piece of paper was an uncontrollable urge from about the age of 2 to 16! It was a hunger, a taste in my mouth, a pleasure, an orgasm. It was something I couldn't do without. And then I stopped. I often say that Music and Art High School cured me of it. But really I miss it like a lost lover, a relationship you can't reconstruct. Any attempt to do so without full understanding and growth would be a parody. Who wants to revisit pain? I haven't wanted it enough to do that.
I watch my niece in love with her love and remember. I wonder if she thinks of it this way.
So, a conversation that ended? I really like that image. It's been in the periphery of my vision for a while. Thank you P.
