This week's blog was written by visual artist, Steve Yarosh.
Do you ever wonder why we do this dance? Scurrying ourselves in circles until art smolders and rises from the center.
Is it for money? Heavens no. Money rains far easier in other places than in the world of art.
So why do we do it? This crazy dance. Why don’t we just take an easier, more prosperous path – like any sane person would do?
The answer is simple. We are not sane.
We hear voices.
Whispers from somewhere, urging us to tilt our heads and look at the world differently.
“Maybe like this!” the voices sing as they gently push my head to the side. And I see something new that was always there.
It’s a gentle taunting – from someone you know is right.
They’re whispers of truth, and no matter how hard you try not to hear; no matter how long you pretend the world is just the way your teachers taught you -- it never works. You still see the world differently. And those gentle voices never stop.
I can feel them now! On my shoulder touching me.
“You know,” they breathe warmly in my ear. “It’s really more like this . . .” and they switch the shadows and light around.
“I know” I murmur back, and I tilt my head to see a little more.
I used to be a lawyer.
I had suits and thick books that people lived their lives by. And when they’d stray from the rules I’d push them back between the lines. For this I got money, and emptiness, and more money to live with the emptiness.
That’s when the voices started.
“Not this . . .” they gently sang tugging at my suit and turning me in another direction.
I tried ignoring them. I’d reach for the books and read out loud. “These Rules!” I’d say grasping at pages. But I could hear them laughing. “No . . . it’s over there,” they whispered, pointing me away.
And then one day I shouted back.
“Enough!” I screamed and I tore pages from the book. I flung them to the table and I cut and drew and twisted those pages . . . into a feeling. And the voices sang louder, clearer.
So here I am now. No suit, no books.
They call me “artist” and I smile without speaking. Because inside I know I’m just someone with voices. Urging me on.
“Yes . . . more like that,” they sing. “More like that . . .” as I listen, and draw.