He's writing again! In his fine, black,
spidery hand he's being creative, sticking cut-out reproductions of his
paintings in his little black book, annotating, documenting, illustrating... 'a
year in the life of...'.
Journaling. It's all the rage and his journal
is no mere diary but a through-the-year record of his artistic adventures and
creative experiments. Jealous? Me? Well, yes, as it happens. That little
green-eyed monster is in full fling, stirred up by my own repressed creative
talents and a severe case of writer's block. It was a great idea of his and, so
far, brilliantly executed, each page filled with the latest creative idea,
exquisitely expressed in pen and wash, oils or watercolour. When paint is
exhausted, photography takes over. I watch, frustrated, as he deftly fits
together imaginatively visualised and realised
collages of stunning photos, casually tossed off over the last couple of years
with his new digital camera.
"I shall need to buy another of these
books soon" he says, adding insult to injury. I would be proud to own just
one of his autobiographical art diaries, bursting with all the evidence of his
newfound passion. Not that I begrudge him his good fortune. It's just that my
own ventures into journaling always founder - too sporadic, too wordy and frankly
uninspired. However, I have had my turn with new impassioned ventures: my first
foray into autobiographical self-publishing (Stories of our Childhood), my frenzied attempts to write and
publish poetry in a much-coveted poetry collection, my first commission as a
weekly column writer for an international expatriate on-line journal and my
enthusiastic first attempts at blogging. Blogger.com: the road to world fame
and acclaim (not!). No, I have had my turn, enjoyed my obsessions, felt the
warm encouragement or urgent prompting of my muse. But right at this moment the
spark is gone and I am left bereft, bemused and cut adrift from that pulsating
life flow, that huge wave that ploughed relentlessly up the beach, carrying me,
its willing prisoner, triumphant, on its crest. My wave has receded now,
leaving me in the shallows, plagued by jealousy and regret, until another wave
comes in and my muse takes pity on me.
So go to it, friend! Enjoy it while it lasts.
Plunder your treasure trove for all it's worth. And I will wait, silently, in
the shadows, wrestling with my little green monster until fortune, my muse and
that great big wave come again and sweep me off my feet.
