drought

These long stretches of creative drought — not writing, not painting, not making art — are painful. It hurts not to create. It eats away at the insides not to write. And there’s really no excuse for staying thirsty: there is plenty to slake the dry cracked earth of this drought-stricken art void. So much could be spilt all over ignored journal pages and canvasses. My stillness suggests scarcity where there is actually abundance. I could be doing much more. I could be taking pen to paper, brush to linen. I have time now. And yet, quiet days become weeks and then months of silence.

Dust covers the cool grainy surface of the art tables. Forgotten half started projects are littered about the workroom. And the more I don’t paint, the more I don’t draw, the more I don’t write, the more my guts twinge. There is a growing and weird fear around it now and I can’t remember how to start.

Anne Lamott tells writers to trust in non-perfection because everyone writes crappy first drafts. Elizabeth Gilbert says we must show up, mule-stubborn and undeterred even when the creative muse doesn’t follow us into the studio. She says that creativity and suffering are inherently linked. Matisse is credited with boiling it all down to three words of brilliance: “creativity takes courage.”

Taking pen and brush to hand is the wellspring of great joy and also the mother of deep angst. But ignoring the haunting call to create generates even greater anguish than answering it. Early this morning the feeble December sun is casting shadows on Breadloaf mountain’s south-facing slope. Frozen evergreens just stand around uncomplaining. And last night’s oil paints are on my hands because finally I have heaved myself back into it to plug away and flail awkwardly. I am writing junk, drawing poorly, painting even worse.