"When dawn spreads its paintbrush on the plain, spilling purple... ," Songs of the Pioneers song from TV show "Wagon Train." Dawn on the mythic Santa Fe Trail, New Mexico, looking toward Raton from Cimarron. -- Clarkphoto. A curmudgeon's old-fashioned newspaper column, cross-breeding metaphors and journalism and art, for readers in 150 countries.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Capricorn days



A year for spontaneity, not just mechanical planning which drains creativity of its life force, imprisoning the muse behind bars of expectations and rules, raping art and life of joy.

This painting came from frustration of trying too hard last night. Three attempts at a mountain cabin scene got worse and worse. Micromanaging the details, and not getting "flow" as Erica Jong writes in her book on writing, "Seducing the Demon." I was  trying to paint because I felt I had to. If this old first-born Capricorn--who has now been around the sun 66 times--should have learned anything in these years, it's that you can't control everything, you're not in charge, relax. My best paintings are when I let go. The best parts of my paintings are the skies, when the painting is loose and free. Last night, I was not having fun. Simon and Garfunkel popped into my head--they're never far away these days--and I thought, "let's try something."
From a previous post: "I will find the way I'm going by going."

"Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

"In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone... .

"And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls"
And whispered in the sounds of silence"

-Simon and Garfunkel

1 comment:

  1. Art and poetry are both that way...I don't believe they can ever be forced. Somedays, I sit for hours with pen in hand, tablet all scratched up with writing, arrows, "X's" - and doodles. Like you said, trying to write because I felt I had to.
    I WANT to write - but the muse is sick that day!! Then other times a complete poem spills out, with little or no revision needed! I look at it and say, Where the hell did that come from?? But, of course, our art work and poetry comes from our experience - that froths to the top of our realization when we "let go" and create!

    I think the painting is very expressive and dynamic! ;)

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