Sunday, 4 February 2018

The one thing I forget about painting and writing, and really doing anything creative, is that, most of time, it feels a lot like work. Most of the time it's sitting frustrated with an idea that won't actualise into reality quite the way I wanted to. It's staring at something for hours and hours in microscopic detail with no real clue as to what the final product would be. It's kind of ridiculous, really. This blind engrossment in the process and belief that it will be worth it. 

I was thinking about motivation. Where it comes from, why we need, maybe even how we can manufacture it.

What drives me to paint for hours on end? What force wakes me up in the middle of the night to scribble down ideas?

When our brains make these connections that light us up entirely it can feel like a complete accident and it can feel like a force of magic.

I don't know why I feel so driven to create but I know that if I don't I simply don't feel like myself. When life has been busy and I haven't made time, those ideas still come. They build up and it's almost as if I can feel them clogging up my mind, weighing me down and reminding me "Gabi, this is what you're hear to do, this is what makes you feel good, don't forget me."

But I do forget. I forget that I have things to create. I forget that time is limited and that I will die. With the parameters of what society deems our lives as supposed to be, I see those guidelines flashing over the eyes of everyone I know and strangers I don't. I'm forced to forget who I am and what I want because I have rent to pay and new clothes I should want to buy.

I paint because it feels good.

I paint because it reminds me of who I am and that I can create anything I imagine. I paint and I write and I create to stay in flow, to bring the ideas to life so they don't feel stuck within me.

I paint because, for the hours of frustration it will bring when it's not going quite right or I don't even understand what I'm doing or why, there will be those moments of complete ecstasy.

"Find what you love and let it kill you" 

Bukowski said that. He died of leukaemia and I don't think his writing gave him that. But his writing did give him life and isn't that what ultimately kills us all, living?

So, I'll paint and I'll write and I'll create whatever might come to me because I don't think I could not.


Photo: Viv Morris