Barcelona. Paris. Painting. Writing. Woody Allen you’re killing me. I was never a fan. I saw the value in “Annie Hall” and other neurotic biopics but they didn’t thrill. These recent films (“Vicky Cristina Barcelona” and “Midnight in Paris”) are fictitious in character but are an accurate description of the creative and his/her struggle. We are perpetually tortured. Drinking, drugs, sex can provide a reprieve from the torment. It can just as well destroy everything. I dream of New York in the ‘50’s. In hindsight it appears the equal to the romance of Paris in the ‘20’s with a little edge, same amount of booze, less sex. Not as edgy as New York in the ‘80’s. I was making art then. In Detroit. So close. What about now? Is it happening now? Could they see it when they were in the middle of it? Did Degas know? Hemingway? I think Toulouse-Lautrec may have had his suspicions. Pollock and de Kooning were too drunk. Basquiat may have taken the most vicious thrashing. If it weren’t for Warhol, he’d have been totally alone save the vultures.
Making art and making love are virtually the same experience if I’m with the right person or in love with phthalo blue at the moment it’s on my brush. What’s the point otherwise. It’s all just rote then. Where’s the beauty? The luxury? Unless I can’t tell you what day it is or if it’s hot or cloudy, why bother? I’ve tried to force it hoping for just a tiny shimmer of that. If I’m not lost, it can’t be found.
Does the good art always come from the struggle? Seems all the greats have fantastically weird lives. Because of the struggle the love is so much sweeter. It’s in such contrast to the daily grinding minutia that’s hell bent on wearing me down to mediocrity. I get atta girls for my willingness to resort to manual labor to pay a bill. I don’t find it admirable. It’s pitiful. Sad. Nothing takes me further away from the cracked window I’m experiencing at this moment. Nothing slams that bit shut quicker or with more conviction. If I don’t have my contemporaries to hole-punch this wrestling match (4 more and I get one catatonic depression for free), I could be departed from this openness permanently. No ordinary sun for me. It’s a bitch of a choice that’s no choice at all.
I can’t resist the chase. Those glorious, yet painfully transient, moments when the universe opens up and shares its secrets. It can happen on a transcendent plane, sure. Spectacular. It can be just as stunning when I hear “I’m just going to say it” from a man I’ve been in a smoke and mirrors dance with for 20 years. Takes some age to have the courage to speak your heart. I had to wait for that one. Worth it. It’s all so bloody worth it. Just don’t ask me on a cloudy day. I’m waiting to take a walk in the rain with someone who doesn’t mind getting wet.
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