The Muse Has a Face: Musing and Musing and the Muse
When I started this blog, I told myself not to write for the post. I swore I wouldn’t. Writing for the post and writing for the schedule isn’t what I imagine my work to be. But it’s part of it. It must be done. That’s what I’m telling myself. Arguing.
It’s an argument for habit more than an argument for art.
I’m writing because I told myself I would, and it’s the only way to find out what’s in here—to locate the art.
Mixing It Up: It’s My Art.
I’m writing about this one from the Phoenix airport. Speaking of greatness (a few posts ago), I’m not a great travel agent—I thought I was flying to Denver and told a friend in Denver that I was going to be in Denver but to change planes so, sorry, I won’t see him this time, but soon, soon. We can figure this out; surely we can—now we can because I finished a draft of that book I’ve been writing—it’s bad, really bad, like if I-found-a-skeleton-in-the-woods-and-all-the-bones-were-badly-broken bad, but I did it. I found the story. It’s all there. All the broken bones are sorted and stashed in “like kinds” buckets—leg bones, arm bones, spine, fractured skull pieces; each in their bucket. Now I can write it and hang out with people. I’m not lost in the woods anymore. I mean, yeah. I’m addicted to being lost in the creative process, and I want to drop this story for another yet unwritten one, but yeah. No. I’m going to finish this one …
Great: The Greatest Abstraction So Far
Greatness as a painter? Or artist? It makes no sense to me. Okay, yeah, I get it. We define certain artists and people as great. It happens. Opinions accumulate. Things are noted. Other things are never seen. Which is the greatest?
The more I thought about it, the more “greatness” felt like an odd thing to measure—it has no shape and is slippery. What does “great” even mean? When I think of the artists I’ve known, the ones others might call great—highly successful in their work, some of them famous for it—I’ve seen some great performances and shows and witnessed a fluffed-up ego or two. But I’ve never heard one artist say that they think they’re great—