sexArtdeath, etc.

I wanted to call this blog "Inside/Outside Art," but the domain was already taken. Then I thought, how about "sexArtdeath"? My three favorite subjects. Ordinarily, I'm not at a loss for words, as many of my friends on Google+ well know. But now it is time to put myself on the line. You know how that can be. I'm really good at just about anything I put my mind to, when I don't have to make a public commitment to it.  Of course, I can't toss off brain surgery, or do an astounding Chopin, but I can be a phenomenal rock star in front of my bedroom mirror. Finally, forced to choose quickly before I changed my mind, here it is: "Inside CutZy McCall." Oops. Maybe not. Though I am quite frequently an artist of surreal erotica, I don't have an easy time with public nakedness when I come out from behind my Art mask.  Most of us don't. This is the "sex" part of my blog. Most people are pretty suppressed when it comes to expressing our sexuality openly. A lot of us are just bursting with it, and if we are honest, it comes out in our Art. (I'm talking about all artists: painters, writers, poets, dancers, musicians, etc.)

Most serious artists are passionate people. We're naked when we do it, naked when we show it. It's not an easy job, but apparently somebody's got to do it. Often, we are seen as being the art that we do. That's hard to take. It's a conflict. We are not the Art we create, and yet, we are. It can bring us shame, sometimes embarrassment, because when we do it - if we do it with passion - we are naked, and naked art is both hard to make and hard to look at. Robert Hughes, the great art historian, wrote about it in his book "The Shock Of The New."  If we are to be great artists, we have to be new, we have to be shocking and we have to be dangerous. We will be open to criticism and misunderstanding. Coming from a lifetime of being gifted children and misunderstood, that can lead to a lot of dysfunctional behavior. Many artists have to find themselves before they can be at peace with their work. We know we are "special," but that very uniqueness has been the cause of much strife in our youth. We're deemed "different" by our families, "odd" or "creative." That word, that beautiful word, can be hurled at us like a weapon. I, for example, was the "creative" one in my family. It was a second-hand compliment. A slight put-down. Just the fact that I was categorized, made me an outsider. Luckily for me, my parents were devoted to Art. They shlepped me endlessly to museums and galleries, symphony and theater. That kind of made up for being "creative," but they were not artists, so there was always something missing. I finally figured out what it was. They didn't have a clue what it meant to be an artist. So I never felt particularly bad about it. But some of my friends who are artists have suffered so much from being denigrated by their families and communities that they are paralyzed and blocked from doing the work they know they were meant to do. They are like "special needs" kids, coddled and "tolerated" by their clueless minders. Alice Miller's "The Drama Of The Gifted Child" spelled out our predicament. Damned if we do, damned if we don't. It's Heaven and it's Hell to be an artist, especially the ones doing new work that has not yet been accepted. Frankly, this is the only kind of artist I ever wanted to be.

But to hell with that. Make of the title what you wish. I'm in. And you're welcome inside. I'm going to say what I really, really think about Sex, Art and Death,  and what it's like to be an artist in a world that needs, but rarely acknowledges, us. And I'm going to make some pronouncements about Art. Yes, I'll capitalize it here, because I'm in love with it. When I dream, colors stream into my eyes. When I walk down the street, I see shadows and light and small creatures slithering away from my prying view. I see the trees waving at me and catch the birds following me, overhead, from tree to tree. I see my sad, drooping neighbor who is hooked on meth. I see the busy, driven neighbor hurrying to finish up her walk to get back to business.  She's wearing a purple vest. It's a "bad" color choice for her bright red hair. I wince. I pull out my i phone to take a picture of the shadows thrown by a fence across the wide, tree-bowered boulevard outside my home. There. I got it. Maybe I'll turn it into a "painting" and post it on Tech Modern Artists.

I made a commitment to being an artist when I turned thirty. I bought myself brown cords, a tan belt, a soft blue poet's shirt with voluminous sleeves and a floppy charcoal brown suede hat. I wore Frye boots and a leather vest. I found a leather scroll in a consignment shop and wrapped it around my belt.  Inside I kept parchment paper, a quill pen and ink so that I could write poetry when the Muse called upon me. I stood in front of my bedroom mirror and took a vow to be an artist. It was a serious vow, as deep and important to me as being a doctor, a lawyer, or a cop. It was a marriage vow. Ass I grew, I would discover that, just as I was in love with Art, so was I in love with  other artists, too.  But that's another story, for another day. I've got to go now. A guest - a poet and dear friend - is coming for two weeks. I have to tidy up the spare room and do a little cleaning before the cleaning person comes. You know how that goes, right? Love you with all my heart. Thanks for reading.