Spent the day on the boat.
Turned the phone off, and the music on. Made a pot of coffee, tidied up my workspace, and then turned to the blank canvas with a giddy and delicious tingle running through me.
And then an epiphany. The thing taking shape in that everydayness.
And you, recognising the point when the work comes together, gelling as if by magic…
Epiphany is a good word for it: a manifestation of a divine being. It’s like being in the presence, and under the influence, of a god. A leap, a dive, a surrender, a drug.
I love this feeling. It’s like those dreams where you step off a building, and fly. It’s like hovering over a vast coral reef in the tropics when a shark rises up from the inky blue depths. It’s like pedaling to the top of a very high hill, and then coasting without brakes all the way down…
And then it’s 5 o’clock, and the god vanishes. You’re tired…your neck and back hurt, and you realise you haven’t eaten all day; and you look at the work you’ve done, and it’s pretty un-special…there’s a stuffed chair and some big, gaudy flowers. The colors are too bright, and you wonder what you were thinking when you used that hot lime green, that deep pink, so many muddy shades of beige…and why the hell did you paint a chair in the first place??? Grumbling, you start to fix dinner.
Hopefully, you’ll get another fix—another taste of that flying powder—tomorrow…and maybe the painting will finally reveal itself to you, in full, and you won’t have to scrap it and start again. Hopefully.
“That inspiration comes, does not depend on me. The only thing I can do is make sure it catches me working.”
— Pablo Picasso