Dear,
I hope you are having a good time. I certainly cannot complain, though I would hardly call this a “good time.”
A creative person perceives the world differently than those focused on receiving. I am not saying you belong in that latter group—not at all. I try not to place you in any category—I know you can be surprising. I don’t want to make the mistake of underestimating the opponent.
Sometimes someone says to me, “you paint nicely,” or “I like your paintings.” These words mean very little to me. I know they want to be kind, to find some common ground. But all they achieve is increasing the distance between us. I try to be polite; I thank them for the compliments. I don’t tell them directly what they admire is merely the vomit of my mind.
The person standing on the other side will never understand the burden of thought. Painting for pleasure? I don’t know if such a thing even exists. Sometimes I fantasize about Stephen King—instead of writing, he becomes, say, a salesman. Someone with such a vast vocabulary would surely have plenty of room to shine in that trade. I think about what he would experience if he hadn’t found an outlet for the logorrhea constantly forming in his head. And how many such salesmen have been born?
I think about what the routine of creation does to a person. Slowly, creating becomes part of the day, like walking the dog or drinking tea. It’s not essential for survival, yet removing it from the script creates a certain deficiency. A long-lasting deficiency can turn into frustration. I think many unhappy people are simply artists who haven’t found a way to purge their brains of this vomit.
And so we return to the starting point: the need to create does not mean a person knows how to do it. That they are satisfied with themselves. Then there is the matter of craft, and that cannot be bought. Thus, the circle of frustration loops: I must create to live, but I cannot create as I wish. So, I wither away.
Perhaps that is the reason for the growing interest in art that contributes nothing. To make it easier for people to relieve the pressure. But is there any point in producing a work merely in the form of one’s own physiological act?
I appreciate that you do not judge my efforts. You spare cheap words, for which I am grateful. I believe that somewhere at the bottom of your mind, quite an artist is lurking.
I don’t know—maybe I’ll get to know him someday?
Regards, K.