On parking lots.
Jul. 24th, 2008 11:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ysobelleWhy is it that the best conversations seem to happen in parking lots after the party's over? Or in the kitchen, cleaning up?
Not to say I didn't have some fabulous conversation inside Michael's Deli with the lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sterling2905. But while we were in the parking lot afterwards, I came to not one, but two pretty head-stunning realisations.
The first one is about this Doctor Who frenzy I've been in lately. I utterly loathe and despise anything that carries the faintest whiff of fangirl. I nearly walked out of Billy Franks' gig the other week when I realised there were myriad women flashing their curves and their lashes at him. I've always been that way: when I met Nick Rhodes, lo those many years ago, and everyone around me was screaming, "Nick! NICK!" flashing photos in his eyes, and jamming things for him to sign under his nose, I calmly held up my album and said, most politely, "Excuse me, Mr. Rhodes, but would you sign this for me?"
So why am I so fixated on this show, this crew, this actor? Oh, yes-- the latter: he's single, he's almost my age, and he's quite deliciously hot. But I'm not fifteen. So what is it?
Well, then I realised I've been thinking a lot lately about theatre, and the collaborative effort, and perhaps trying to get back into designing for productions. Maybe even acting. But something.
And then, it sort of struck me sideways while I was talking: in my brain, this ensemble of creatives has become my virtual/pseudo artist's collective.
For centuries, artists have gathered into knots for mutual inspiration, experimentation, and critique. One does not create in a vacuum. The creative process has to be fed. Sometimes, it has to be kicked in the ass. And I've had no one to do that for me in, sadly, years. If ever. In fact, maybe it's no so much that I miss school as I miss having other neurons rapid-firing around me. I miss watching other people climb mountains with art and craft. I miss trying to climb up after them. I miss having someone to inspire me. And if I can't have it in person, I'll get it second-hand: I'll watch someone whose love of his art explodes out of him. I'll watch a writing team bashing out ideas. I'll watch an effects shop bring the ephemeral to the actual. I'm watching clips of read-throughs and preproduction meetings because it feeds my inner collaborative artist. Which leaves me with some obvious questions: is secondhand enough? Do I need to get back into theatre, despite my constant declarations that I don't want to? Do I need a collective?
And then, as if that wasn't enough, on the heels of that blow to the inner skull, I realised that since I've stopped talking to my family-- gut-wrenchingly, horrifically distressing as it is-- I've finally started to actually think of myself as an artist. Erin laughed at me when I said I never did before. "Everyone else thinks you are," she said. But no one else has my Mom in their head with the insidious nagging to play safe, take a desk job: I'm not an artist, I'm an aging child with a hobby. I have finally, perhaps, started to shut that voice down: to see my difficulties as rocks in the road, not enormous Les-Mis barricades complete with singing kids and heroic corpses. I'm sure it's helped that in the last few months, I'm finally starting to see a distant glimmer of light as orders become ever so slightly more regular, and money starting to trickle in-- slowly, yes, but steadily. It's not nearly enough to cover my bills, no, but the point is it's coming in. And I've been to FedEx twice now to ship out this week alone, with several more to go. I'm an artist, and I'm working.
I don't know what I'm going to do now. I'm going to stay in corsetry for the foreseeable future, but also expand my costuming. I'm going to expand my art corset line. I'm going to figure out how to let my family back into my life, but I'm also going to figure out how to set boundaries-- the boundaries I didn't know how to set before. Hell, I don't even think I knew to set them at all.
And one way or the other, I will see "Hamlet." And every other creative effort I can find.
Not to say I didn't have some fabulous conversation inside Michael's Deli with the lovely
sterling2905. But while we were in the parking lot afterwards, I came to not one, but two pretty head-stunning realisations.The first one is about this Doctor Who frenzy I've been in lately. I utterly loathe and despise anything that carries the faintest whiff of fangirl. I nearly walked out of Billy Franks' gig the other week when I realised there were myriad women flashing their curves and their lashes at him. I've always been that way: when I met Nick Rhodes, lo those many years ago, and everyone around me was screaming, "Nick! NICK!" flashing photos in his eyes, and jamming things for him to sign under his nose, I calmly held up my album and said, most politely, "Excuse me, Mr. Rhodes, but would you sign this for me?"
So why am I so fixated on this show, this crew, this actor? Oh, yes-- the latter: he's single, he's almost my age, and he's quite deliciously hot. But I'm not fifteen. So what is it?
Well, then I realised I've been thinking a lot lately about theatre, and the collaborative effort, and perhaps trying to get back into designing for productions. Maybe even acting. But something.
And then, it sort of struck me sideways while I was talking: in my brain, this ensemble of creatives has become my virtual/pseudo artist's collective.
For centuries, artists have gathered into knots for mutual inspiration, experimentation, and critique. One does not create in a vacuum. The creative process has to be fed. Sometimes, it has to be kicked in the ass. And I've had no one to do that for me in, sadly, years. If ever. In fact, maybe it's no so much that I miss school as I miss having other neurons rapid-firing around me. I miss watching other people climb mountains with art and craft. I miss trying to climb up after them. I miss having someone to inspire me. And if I can't have it in person, I'll get it second-hand: I'll watch someone whose love of his art explodes out of him. I'll watch a writing team bashing out ideas. I'll watch an effects shop bring the ephemeral to the actual. I'm watching clips of read-throughs and preproduction meetings because it feeds my inner collaborative artist. Which leaves me with some obvious questions: is secondhand enough? Do I need to get back into theatre, despite my constant declarations that I don't want to? Do I need a collective?
And then, as if that wasn't enough, on the heels of that blow to the inner skull, I realised that since I've stopped talking to my family-- gut-wrenchingly, horrifically distressing as it is-- I've finally started to actually think of myself as an artist. Erin laughed at me when I said I never did before. "Everyone else thinks you are," she said. But no one else has my Mom in their head with the insidious nagging to play safe, take a desk job: I'm not an artist, I'm an aging child with a hobby. I have finally, perhaps, started to shut that voice down: to see my difficulties as rocks in the road, not enormous Les-Mis barricades complete with singing kids and heroic corpses. I'm sure it's helped that in the last few months, I'm finally starting to see a distant glimmer of light as orders become ever so slightly more regular, and money starting to trickle in-- slowly, yes, but steadily. It's not nearly enough to cover my bills, no, but the point is it's coming in. And I've been to FedEx twice now to ship out this week alone, with several more to go. I'm an artist, and I'm working.
I don't know what I'm going to do now. I'm going to stay in corsetry for the foreseeable future, but also expand my costuming. I'm going to expand my art corset line. I'm going to figure out how to let my family back into my life, but I'm also going to figure out how to set boundaries-- the boundaries I didn't know how to set before. Hell, I don't even think I knew to set them at all.
And one way or the other, I will see "Hamlet." And every other creative effort I can find.
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no subject
Date: 2008-07-25 10:31 am (UTC)I'm hurt. :-(
YMMV
Date: 2008-07-26 08:27 pm (UTC)If they're being vampires, stake 'em.
Like it's so hard to accept "Artist?" Even struggling one?
Could be worse, you could be a zombie.
:)