pulled

In the foggy place of memories

Pulled my knees to my chest

And never allow it to close back up again.

layered

     Everybody’s future always begins now. It doesn’t matter if you’re too far ahead or he is too far behind. What matters is that we look at life through rose colored glasses. An artist’s life for example starts the moment you pick up that brush and open that can of paint. It’s not a routine that you have to start and work up some change at a particular time of day. There is no intention of beginning tomorrow in each and every hour we are given. Anything can start anytime, here and now.

     We all have to choose to choose. Every time I hear that egotistical whisper in the back of my head, I stop and listen closely to whatever option there is to consider. And in that conscious moment creative magic happens. Even simple tasks like washing your paint brush can be enjoyable. If you consider taking that option, everything will come down nicely to an artwork using a very clean brush. It may not change your life but it will surely make your work more pleasant altogether.

      You can start slowly, stroke by stroke, layer by layer until you reach that point and say, hey, this is it. I did it I actually did it.

haunted [acrylic on canvas]

...in darkness, calling out to those who haunt me gives me power.

locked

     Anyone can be an artist but not everyone can do it well. The former always ends up with a feeling of uncertainty, worthlessness and frustration like an old door closing on dreams. While on the other hand, the natural born artist walks over the rainbow and collects buckets of thoughtful visions.

     Insecurity is an old wound; it’s what keeps dreamer artists feeling inadequate for weeks and end. It drowns you until you can no longer shake the feeling off. You sank with these feelings and realize that you need to be friendly with your creative self. You shift and look at yourself in another light. You resurface.

     But there are also artists who choose to work deep in the shadows, scared of the fame and moneyed grins of collectors. These are artists whose work shine the brightest. They paint untainted, pure and strong testaments of what they have seen and experienced in a world far away from the gates of artificial light. Brave individuals who are willing to embrace nothingness, not to be pitied and undermined, but always come up with something so brilliant and worthy to fill in that empty frame. They are artists who don’t keep their works guarded, withdrawn and locked up in some Pandora’s box.

     In their fold, one message remains the same: You are not good enough the way you are. Because even in the darkest of shadows there is always a crack in almost everything and that’s how the light gets in.

unused [pen and ink on paper]

     Coming home to a space that is clear of disorder can free us from that mental anguish and subtle disgust due to the visual pollution that surround us. You want to restore, organize and embody that simplicity of a good life, a well-lived life, an adult life. There was a time; my creative life resembled a daffodil growing in between rocks longing for rain. I let the passion and expression slipped away while in my endless quest for that happy life. I hated anyone who has more creative time, more attention, more luck or more of that passion that I didn’t have. All that unused creativity made me feel empty like I may not be able to see colors again. I was surrounded by decay, the falling leaves, the brown grass and dead summer. And on one rare occasion, I found a book - One Hundred Flowers by Giorgia O‘Keeffe. It was almost spring awakening when everything comes back to life over again. Looking around I realized that my creativity turned into bitterness. Emptiness have taken over me. Slowly turning the pages of the book, I saw silence and suddenly I found my voice again.
     Silence is my loudest scream. I spent every single year of my life silently - creating. As an artist it’s all that I wanted and needed. And then I was drawing again.
     Drawing [and all the creative process] happens in silence. It’s the only time ideas, expression and passion pour in to satisfy the intention and purpose of art. Like a daffodil in between rocks, it needs water if not a summer rain.

tucked [ chalk pastel on paper ]

     Lying in my bed on a rather rainy weekend tucked under the warmth of fresh linens and comforter. A good book in hand, above me is my incandescent sky, before me is a picture perfect landscape in the pages of alphabets.   

     I want to be alone today. Friends are silent today. So the characters in the book are filling the places where there should be hours of friend’s laughter. I arch my back on a pillow to get a view of the falling rain behind that sheer curtain. I am in a moment and I feel alone. I hear a faint song coming from somewhere filling me and fading. I wonder how it would feel to fade out with a song.

     I love how the pages of a book turn until you can no longer hold it and the cover closes by itself. It’s like a life story begins because another one pass. I always get lost in a moment like this, a moment of nothingness that most of us fear but we are forever in its presence.

     The rain, the warm bed, the fading song, the pages of the book and the impermanence…nothing has ever looked and feels so beautiful.

detour [ acrylic on canvas ]

     Sometimes I wonder how some people can be such necessary part of one’s life one day and simply vanish the next. It’s kinda like going on a road trip. You plan everything out but then you take a wrong turn; a detour and you end up getting lost. Then you realize it’s the best part of the trip.

     I am not unhappy; I don’t think any of us are…