The first two weeks of August, I had a hard time putting down my pen and little orange travel sketch book. There was nothing I didn’t need to draw –
the beach, the bluffs, fruit, the occasional art plate from my grandmother’s collection of mythology books in our old secretary.
We were on the shores of Lake Michigan, and inspiration kept me up till 2am most nights.
Fast forward four months, and the little orange sketch book – now filled – has been replaced by a slightly larger orange sketch book that is not nearly dog-eared enough for its age. Inspiration is still there, but I almost smothered during the fall.
Now, a few inches of snow cover inspiration outside and a few days ago I began contriving inspiration from things around the house. They are boring things that reflect the last few weeks, but in creating collections and taking the time to study and draw them, I have felt something saving my life.
I don’t mean that something pulled a bottle of pills out of my hand, and it didn’t prompt primal screams of passion, but the act of intentionally seeing, of connecting even the most ordinary objects to pen and paper, did breathe life back into the day-to-day job of living.
I think it was art. And I owe it my life. Hopefully I can pay it back someday.