women who must paint
I believe all of us are touched by the MUSE now and then. All of us
can access creativity, if we desire it sincerely, and make the
appropriate propitiations ETC. Even if your creativity is perhaps as
everyday as baking cookies or organizing really beautiful filing
cabinets, you are still honoring the MUSE.
Then there are those whose lives are devoted to the
MUSE. Given over to the quiet delirium of creativity with every cell of
their body. Whose every breath seems somehow influenced and given to the
creative life. Tiny embellishments to every mundane detail. Grand
sweeping acts of creation performed with shocking confidence. I am
breath taken by their passion, their wildness. Their bold individuality.
These people inspire and fascinate me.
We could make a long list of famous artists of this
kind, but then there are also the hidden artists, marginalized people,
those who create through the years with no hope or interest of
recognition. Sometimes they are considered mad, visionary. Foolish.
Dangerous.
Sometimes
these are artists who don't have studios or much money for art
supplies. I'm humbled by those who create with what they have or can
find, discarded or recycled items, or boldly paint or mosaic or whatever
right on their walls, doors, porches. They quite often 'recycle' the
awful of their lives and remake it into something beautiful.
I honor their passion, their strength. They who have,
no matter their humble circumstances, have served the MUSE. It
strengthens me and encourages me to soldier on with my ART, whatever my
daily discouragements.
On that note, I came across this blog post on the hermitage,
an enchanting blog by touched-by-the-wild artist Rima.
She tells us the
story about three old women, in different countries, who in their
latter years began painting their houses. Not decorous eggshell white.
Not tasteful little watercolors of flowers in a vase. But covering the
interior and sometimes exterior with wondrous and fantastic imagery.
Wild, dreamy, magical images. Wolves and princesses, flowers and trees, angels and demons. Anything
from within their fevered imaginations spilled over in paint on every
surface of their dwellings, the only spaces under their direct control.
And made something beautiful, for the world to marvel at.
Why did these old women break free from convention to paint?
After years of hardship and repression, what wild spirit made them break free?
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