Imagine drawing a map. Imagine tracing all these lines and shapes, using different colors. Quite a meticulous process. But this map is not one that leads to a treasure, or one that is meant to describe any real place on earth. No. This is a map of your soul. Depression Valley, Island of Solitude… you get the idea. All the places that are scarred because of too many tears. The heartbreaks, the bitterness, the loneliness, the happiness, the joy… the ecstasy.
All an artist does is a self-portrait. Everything. We write about people we never met, and we like to think that we simply imagined them into existence, but the truth is that our characters either resemble us or have traits and qualities we wish we had.
That’s why all the great writers that are revered today wrote and kept writing certain types of books, even though they weren’t selling well enough. It wasn’t that they were stubborn. They just couldn’t help themselves.
Do we really write our words, or our words write us?
Maybe the artist is simply the slave of intense feeling, the slave of memory, of loss and anguish, doing nothing more than the bidding of his fate, trying to draw it into existence.
Maybe because the artist needs such map to discover who he really is.
Maybe because his fate needs to be witness by as many people as possible, needs to be lived and relived by others…
This makes me think… maybe we’re not artists. Maybe we’re just the only way art can become real. Vessels. After all, most of us feel empty once we finish a great work of art.