Losing It and Finding It, or Thoughts on The Muse

Some folks who don't choose to dabble in the arts imagine that a painting or a song happens at will. Truthfully, it sort of does and it sort of doesn't. In fact, the arts imitate life: there's an initial intention, and then whatever comes after is potluck. 

I've grown to love this come-what-may fact of creativity. Having had a long business career that's often about executing as close to plan as possible, the joy of discovery that comes free of expectations eclipses the staleness of repetitive process.

Last night, for example, I started with a conceptual piece--the third in a series--with the intent of rendering a vision of sea meeting sky. What I expected to take shape from each stroke and smudge of pastel, however, did not. Five seconds from making a paper basketball and scoring a free throw in lieu of a masterpiece, I stopped short. 

Deep as the Ocean

As I looked once more at the darkly smudged page highlighted from one angle with streams of light, I realized something different emerging: not a different image altogether, but rather a backdrop for something even more visually dramatic.

I propped the piece against the curve of the task lamp, doused the light, and went upstairs. I knew I needed to break away from it and see it in new light, with fresh eyes.

The next afternoon I returned to look at the pastel rendering and sure enough, I could see precisely what to do. Just a bit of color here, and some there, and suddenly this directionless drawing evoked a sense of both mystery and whimsy, completely unforeseen the day before. 

The understanding it took to complete the effort came only through the space given for something to flourish. And flourish it did. The original image set the stage one day for the bright yet spare elements I added the next. 

With a little patience on my part, a drawing that seemed lifeless at first gained its own voice, that je ne sais quoi of artistic expression. 

I couldn't have planned it better.