Creativity is a hunger that incessantly chews the brain. Wealth and fame go by the wayside when you are chasing that ray of imagination to create a new dimension in the world.
They say creative people are eccentric, ego-centric and unsocial, but such interpretations are totally misleading. In reality, artists have an inner struggle on how their idea can get a foothold. With passion, guts and belief in themselves, their only ambition is to establish that distinction, they barely care for anything else in life. Artists can never think about a directional career which 90% of non-arty people pursue. So from the perspective of people who cannot see beyond the boundary of everyday routine life, artists are often considered vagabonds.
Actually, a true artist is extremely self-disciplined. There’s no question that the dust of vagrancy can ever settle on their self-urge. Take the example of my 75-year-old European artist friend you met in my last week’s article. His 45-year-old wife and muse recounted to me how he fulfils his hunger for expression and how she luxuriates in his passion. Her artist husband suddenly wakes up at night, pulls her into his atelier, very roughly takes off her clothes. At first, she mistook this behaviour as his wanting to make love. But he puts her on a pedestal, intensely strokes her through his eyes, mixes paints that he puts in her body, to find a matching body colour. She says she’s always amazed at how, with sensuality and excitement, her body responds to his paint brush. He reveals no physical sexual urge, but his paint brush is filled with a sexuality that engrosses them both in a summit of ardor. Steeped in the artist’s mind and brush colours, her body in his canvas, it’s never ever occurred to her to question whether the paint could be harmful for her body.
Only after hearing her have I understood how a muse can entirely change an artist’s canvas. Not everybody can be an artist’s muse. She devotes herself to these sessions, sitting frozen nude hour after hour, allowing her artist husband to just watch her, not paint: “I am memorising your flesh, your sensitive touch.” He mesmerises her saying he paints the intrinsic memoir that her eyes and body reveals, a sensation above any digital picture, and beyond her own consciousness.
One day, I went with them to an artists’ gathering in a sculptor friend’s house in