It’s the single most creative time of the year; from electronic front yard inflatable’s decked out with built in lights and Santa’s that leap from secret hiding places to unforgettable trees garland and mistletoe…being fun with creative flow is no different than a leaf slowly flying from the limb it'll forever love toward a forest floor where it’ll share its compassion with Chinese Writing spiders requiring blankets to keep warm.
As Cub Scouts our Masters would haul in the boxes of wood and nails and from it we’d unmistakably create more noise than art; but it didn’t matter because Mom or Dad would display it proudly on the living room wall until the holiday was over.
Heart shaped, packed with stuffing, ceramic meeting a child’s ambition to blend impossible with acceptance…we’ve arrived in the zone where art won’t leave you alone. It’s in the air you breathe and the songs you sing; to create something new, different and totally one hundred percent without a doubt something that’s incredibly you.
And then it goes away…which might explain why the month of January is looked upon as being long, dreary, lifeless, dull and stinks like rotten eggs set out for Santa and the secret field mouse that snuck in your house hid it behind the sofa.
It’s not human nature to hide your ambition to be art filled. Art isn’t a mood or a season…it’s every reason of blending what’s inside with the walls that make up your reality.
I laugh while reading Andy Warhol’s handwritten journals…he loved his expressions so much but Canadians never got it. They endlessly invited him to their tall big and wide northern cities but nothing would sell. It hurt him deeply, because says ouch more than art that sits and sits while the curator grunts while spinning their fingers inside empty pockets.
The act of sliding into despair rather than take one small exploratory action is no different than ignoring your children. The only difference, it doesn’t matter how loud your soul screams you own a Radio Shack purchased device that allows you to tune out the wants, needs and demands of a self that still wants to find positive vibrations in the art of living.
Art isn’t just something you hang on a wall. Some people build motorcycles, make cakes that taste so incredible your eyes pop out and before you grab another pair your fingers are diving into new recipes promising to put serious amounts of love in your tummy.
Frank Lloyd Wright turned windows into an art. I’m accused daily of putting too much art into the way I share conversation on the radio, “Stop being so passionate about your delivery!” Some people locate art in politics, designing new drugs to help family and friends get over the common cold, turning a smile into a storytelling adventure with an inner city school that doesn’t have a budget to purchase a library so they bus their kids uptown believing art can be see as well as heard.
When you slide into despair rather than take one small exploratory action you're keeping from the world the songs you sing. I sing horribly but my producers Jimm and Alan call it unique. Van Morrison is unique. So was Jim Morrison and I don’t think Neil Young or Bob Dylan have ever been in tune but their poetry will live longer than the average summer breeze.
Why do I believe so much in the act of art? Because it’s never given me reason to doubt. Peoples opinions combined with my own bring injury not the act of art. Not being featured at Wentworth Gallery or shoved onto the shelves of a giant bookstore run by larger than life CEO’s and former librarians offers a place to swim in silence but with the internet a writer is gifted with a much louder voice to send toward South Korea, India, Russia and Butte, Montana. I laugh like a child on a Christmas cookie rush when the official reports come in that someone from Vietnam chose to read what my writing instruments shed one morning on a clean sheet of paper. I used to call it a once living tree but in reality…like a leaf, a tree continues to breathe if you place thoughts on it. Ask Mark Twain what it’s like to have new reader’s everyday picking up something he jotted down over 100 years ago.
Art keeps showing up at my door, knocking until my face shows up in the window.
Hear that? It knows your name too! Now we have something in common. Two ships sailing across a southern horizon whispering jokes heard on Jay Leno, Letterman and Jimmy Fallon. Comedy isn’t real. It a reaction to something you can relate with. So during your darkest hours and most horribly horrific holiday moments that seem endless, mean and unloved…never forget that art grows in every corner and will forever be with you no matter how many times you blow snot out of your nose.
Art is created then shared. When you hide it from the world you’re missing out on the opportunity of sharing a smile with someone in Ireland. It’s not about knowing names and seeing how many pictures you paint, flowers you grow or speeches you deliver to young adults stuck between taking drugs and staying clean. When you slide into despair rather than take one small exploratory action…the end result will be left in the hands of those we elect and we all know what big business has done to that.
I will always believe in you first…
arroecollins@clearchannel.com
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