In Jackson Pollock's Shoes

I'm a writer with a little case of writer’s block. Whenever this happens, I need to paint things. Books, paper, shoes, raincoats, boots. Be careful not to stand too close to me, or you'll find yourself covered in cerulean blue.

 

Last February I received a fellowship to work on my novel at the Vermont Studio Center. And I did what I always do when I'm at an artist residency--I hang out with the visual artists because, honestly that's where all the cool kids hang out. Even most writers will admit this. The visual artists are fun and they often play cool music while they work and they are messy! Paint. Clay. Brushes. Hammers. Sinks covered in paint. Pastels. Charcoal. Big tables filled with sketches. Walls covered with indecipherable works in progress--all there for the naked eye to see as if you’re looking straight into the secret workings of some mad scientist's brain. 

 

Oh, and they walk around the campus splattered in paint. (Sometimes talking to themselves.) And, when they walk into the dining room, you just know they're a visual artist, because they wear those Carthartt jumpsuits, covered in paint--and they're so deep into their work, that they don't realize that they've got a big paint brush stuck in their hair, holding up that messy top knot.

Can you tell I love visual artists? 

 

And so, I looked at my lug boots--and I thought--do I really need to live a life of pain and suffering, caked deep in the complexity of artistic angst--swept into oblivion by alcohol-fueled summers in East Hampton, hanging out with Pollock and Krasner, Warhol and de Kooning and the gang? Just to feel like an artist?

No! I just need to splatter some paint on my boots. And so, I did just that. 

 

Writers block be gone!

 

Creative Friends--your assignment for this week is to stop focusing quite so much. Take a step back and think laterally, not linearly. Switch gears. 

 

And, go ahead and splatter some of that metaphorical paint.

 

Love,

Jamie