We’ve all done it; from childhood to adult underwear or lack thereof…no moment in history can unfold unless there are questions. Questions can be easy, tiring, playful, intriguing, insightful, worth the enormous amount of patience required to finally burp it up and questions can be the only key that fits the door behind the wall next to the mountain near impossibility.
Author Bryon Katie believes the art of locating inner peace at work, at home, an outrageously expensive restaurant or in a car stuck at a never ending bright red traffic light is four questions away from being accepted then forgotten.
In the opening pages of her book Loving What Is, Katie’s description resembles the image in many mirrors; a life overtaken by fear, guilt, stress, depression and whatever else daytime television talk show hosts create in their race to score better ratings.
I’m not gonna waste your time. The four questions are:
Is it true?
Can you absolutely know that it’s true?
How do you react when you think that thought?
Who would you be without that thought?
These aren’t the questions you instantly whip into action during a heated discussion. The challenger could be fueled with the wrong medicine leaving the situation wide open for accusations that tend to sharpen the environment rather than win the chase on a race toward peace.
Four questions you might ask a troubled friend while sharing hot steamy peppermint flavored coffee with an edge of chocolate smiling up at you each time your desire to look great and feel better becomes weak.
Being one that openly admits to having several personalities…I share with you an example while reaching out to Arroe the artist; a painter, acrylic scented brush breathing former gallery loving promoter of free will expressions until a public display in New Orleans in 2009 silenced him forever.
Interviewer: Is it true you’ve allowed a gallery owner's mid-recession fears destroy what came so incredibly easy to you?
The Painter: I kept telling her that my paintings of the bridges in Charleston, SC wouldn’t sell in New Orleans. Southern cities take great pride in the masterpieces men of construction leave behind and if you can’t physically see the bridge painted on the canvas, why in earth would you invest in a painting? Nothing sold for 90 days. She wanted my stuff out and it came with a letter that said, “Maybe you should think about no longer doing this. Having no reaction from my clients is a sign.”
Interviewer: Can you absolutely know that it’s true?
The Painter: Every now and then I pull up the email for no reason other than to locate an LOL or a Ha Ha Ha. I mentioned to her several times that I understood the reasons for the gallery opening two months late. I lowered my prices to help get her business while at the same time offering to send different pieces of art because my heart kept telling me that paintings of Charleston bridges won’t sell in New Orleans but she was completely addicted to the idea that anyone who enjoys structure will buy structure.
Interviewer: How do you react when you think that thought?
The Painter: Angry, sad, silent yet it’s opened the door for me to explore other avenues of expression such as my music. I’ve always written music and believe the only reason why I got into radio is because I was too lazy to chase stages. If New Orleans hadn’t happened I wouldn’t have challenged myself to take the songs beyond a home studio to a real world with real musicians and producers that talk on funky microphones while never uncrossing their arms or smiling at really stale radio jokes.
Interviewer: Is it true you enjoy the music more than painting?
The Painter: Without a doubt. When I’d paint there was always music in the house which invited my doves and other birds to sing with it. I called it my Jazz. The only reason why I started putting paint on canvas was to invite people to my lyrics. It was a trick I shared with other poets and writers at Barnes and Noble where I had them sit in the section of the store where their books would be on display; after twenty minutes I wanted to hear about the store patrons that found interest in that particular section. They came back with empty hearts. That’s when I challenged myself to take ink and stain pages which later grew to a canvas and in doing so I’d write something in the corner. The picture caught the attention of a passerby who then took the time to read my lyrics.
Interviewer: Who would you be without that thought?
The Painter: A closet writer; someone that rushes to feed the addiction of a once living tree that collects words in order to stay alive. My first book was written while in the second grade, it along with thunderous amounts of poetry remain hidden away because I was too shy to put my visions out there.
Interviewer: Think about it…by painting you created a tool that helped pry open a fear of displaying your true art. You allowed something that you liked to serve as the bodyguard while your true love for music and writing books has been on display on web pages all over the world for nearly two years. Sure, the email sent from the gallery owner cracked the egg but it gave birth to a creative outlet, it also reintroduced you to everything tucked away in the closet. There’s no reason to hate, feel bad about or silence. I can’t imagine what other doors will be opened the moment you pick up the brush again. Let it continue to serve you as the tool it was designed to be.
The book is called Loving What is from Byron Katie…
arroecollins@clearchannel.com
Showing posts with label art in new orleans. Show all posts
Showing posts with label art in new orleans. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Thursday, August 5, 2010
When fate orders you to stop...keep walking forward.
Amazingly, I’ve heard as well as used every excuse written about why today isn’t a good day to be an artist. Everything from not being in the mood, too tired, totally burnt by a demanding career, its no longer fun when its turned into a business to always being introduced to people who love your creations blessed with horizon chasing visions but can’t find the nickels, dimes and dollar bills required to help you pay for the stifling price of the canvas and paint.
A newly designed modern art gallery in New Orleans loved, loved, loved my Charleston pieces, “Nothing’s captured the essence of the Ravenel Bridge like your paint brush.”
Two extremely important things should’ve served as giant stop signs in the core portion of the soils that keep my ego starving artist way popping up wild flower and grapevines:
1. A gallery from New Orleans wanted art that kissed the unforgettable beauty of my most favorite city Charleston…you don’t visit the Outer Banks of the Carolina’s to purchase works that resemble New York City. Collectors purchase fish pictures.
2. Nearly every bank in this great nation was folding, jobs were being tossed out like extremely hot over-microwaved kernels of popcorn—Gallery’s aren’t museums, you’ve got 90 days to make waves.
Although I did verbally ask on several occasions why the Charleston pieces seemed to be more important than the other expressions fed by multitudes of colors and subjects; the answer I kept getting back, “Because I love them.”
That’s the only thing an artist wants to hear, “I love them!”
Due to the recession the gallery opened nearly two months late totally missing the Fat Tuesday rush. Nothing moved which prompted an evil email from the owner who proceeded to tell me every reason why my art sucks will suck and should never be touched again. To which I gently replied, “I love it when my paint brush moves people into showcasing their true feelings. My job is done. You have been motivated to be great!”
Probably not the best thing to send…so I did my best to make it up to the gallery—I penned out a nice letter to the owner of the gallery: I’m so sorry to have taken up so much space during your incredible grand opening. I have found someone who wants the art…they’ll be in today to take it home for free. Please let them have it at 100% no cost. It’s on me.”
The strange twist to this creative mix up is what artist’s tend to miss when they’re completely focused on making a buck rather than releasing what they see inside to a world they may never meet. The woman that visited the gallery had seen my art via the internet and had spoken several times of one day owning a piece. I remembered she was from New Orleans…so I wrote to her and said, “You make me smile knowing you want what a gallery doesn’t need.”
I never heard from her until one day last year an email from her husband said, “My wife loved your Charleston pieces, she hung them by the windows believing she could always see that unstoppable bridge on the horizon. She passed away a week ago in the very room those paintings were displayed. Thank you for sharing your rainbow.”
I’ve heard as well as used every excuse written as to why today isn’t a good day to be an artist.
Everyday born is a new sunrise to chase and within its rays that reach from sea to sea there’s always going to be someone that needs your art more than you. It’s not yours to keep…you were born to share it. There’s never a recession inside someone’s heart when reaching to hold a reason to touch a sky seen by an artists eye. For what an artist invites is an act that spoken words can never explain therefore we try to communicate with paint.
arroecollins@clearchannel.com
A newly designed modern art gallery in New Orleans loved, loved, loved my Charleston pieces, “Nothing’s captured the essence of the Ravenel Bridge like your paint brush.”
Two extremely important things should’ve served as giant stop signs in the core portion of the soils that keep my ego starving artist way popping up wild flower and grapevines:
1. A gallery from New Orleans wanted art that kissed the unforgettable beauty of my most favorite city Charleston…you don’t visit the Outer Banks of the Carolina’s to purchase works that resemble New York City. Collectors purchase fish pictures.
2. Nearly every bank in this great nation was folding, jobs were being tossed out like extremely hot over-microwaved kernels of popcorn—Gallery’s aren’t museums, you’ve got 90 days to make waves.
Although I did verbally ask on several occasions why the Charleston pieces seemed to be more important than the other expressions fed by multitudes of colors and subjects; the answer I kept getting back, “Because I love them.”
That’s the only thing an artist wants to hear, “I love them!”
Due to the recession the gallery opened nearly two months late totally missing the Fat Tuesday rush. Nothing moved which prompted an evil email from the owner who proceeded to tell me every reason why my art sucks will suck and should never be touched again. To which I gently replied, “I love it when my paint brush moves people into showcasing their true feelings. My job is done. You have been motivated to be great!”
Probably not the best thing to send…so I did my best to make it up to the gallery—I penned out a nice letter to the owner of the gallery: I’m so sorry to have taken up so much space during your incredible grand opening. I have found someone who wants the art…they’ll be in today to take it home for free. Please let them have it at 100% no cost. It’s on me.”
The strange twist to this creative mix up is what artist’s tend to miss when they’re completely focused on making a buck rather than releasing what they see inside to a world they may never meet. The woman that visited the gallery had seen my art via the internet and had spoken several times of one day owning a piece. I remembered she was from New Orleans…so I wrote to her and said, “You make me smile knowing you want what a gallery doesn’t need.”
I never heard from her until one day last year an email from her husband said, “My wife loved your Charleston pieces, she hung them by the windows believing she could always see that unstoppable bridge on the horizon. She passed away a week ago in the very room those paintings were displayed. Thank you for sharing your rainbow.”
I’ve heard as well as used every excuse written as to why today isn’t a good day to be an artist.
Everyday born is a new sunrise to chase and within its rays that reach from sea to sea there’s always going to be someone that needs your art more than you. It’s not yours to keep…you were born to share it. There’s never a recession inside someone’s heart when reaching to hold a reason to touch a sky seen by an artists eye. For what an artist invites is an act that spoken words can never explain therefore we try to communicate with paint.
arroecollins@clearchannel.com
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