R-8

I ponder a lot on the sources of my inspirations and visions. Though the medium I make use of most is written word, I find that most of the permanent inspirations I have lie outside of that medium. Alphonse Mucha, Artemisia Gentileschi, Vincent van Gogh; Hans Zimmer, Gustav Mahler, Debussy and both Boulangers – these inspire me constantly. The way I craft stories and the ideas I play with are influenced by these more than what I have read. I know if I were offered the opportunity, I would ask my favourite contemporary artists who they read, who they watch, where they find themselves meandering and dawdling. I want to know what fills the soup of their mind, what comprises the broth, what ingredients simmer therein. I hold fast to the notion that the best writers are insatiable readers; I also believe that they are, too, unlimited in their reading material, that they read interactions between the people they encounter at the store, that they read films and albums, any and every form of narrative they encounter, that they read them with the same vigour as the literature lining their shelves.

Sometimes the art I read serves as a reminder. Recently, I’ve read Babel, and then the Poppy War trilogy, both by R. F. Kuang. Through reading this series, I remembered that I needn’t hold myself back when it comes to writing, that I can flesh out the worlds as I wish, that I owe it to myself and the worlds I weave to complete the tapestry rather than restrict myself. The voices I’ve been told are worth listening to and emulating are no better, no more valid nor worthwhile nor important than my own. I recently watched The Land, a film recording of Mitski’s, and was reminded that I can perform in the ways that befit me, that I needn’t restrict myself to the methods and modes of those people might find most familiar.

Art is a selfish pursuit. I say that without the implication of guilt or sin or devilry. To pursue art is to express oneself through a medium or media, knowing that one will be interpreted by those who engage with that art. The painter, the musician, the writer – we artists must all remember the audience, must acknowledge them, must know they will take what we have wrought into themselves, will internalise some facet(s) of the work, will resonate and keep what suits them, and abandon, ignore, misinterpret, forget the rest. Art is first and foremost communication. It is offering a piece of oneself to the rest. “This, from my heart, I offer to yours.” And the audience does with it as they will. There is nothing we can do about it; we offer it to the audience, and the audience takes it. The making of art is selfish; the presentation is where others are involved. Even collaborative artworks are selfish, the amalgamation of the contributors’ heart-pieces into one pulpy, pulsing thing.

I cannot say I had forgotten that, that art – the making of which being an inherently selfish thing – required me to put myself into it. The following has greater accuracy: I had forgotten myself. Ignored myself. Gotten so used to hiding and secreting myself away, that I had left out the very thing which makes my art so compelling: my heart. Perhaps I was tired. Perhaps I was insecure. Likely, a combination of those and more. Though there have been many ways in which I’ve been supported over the years, there are more ways, more important ways, in which I haven’t. I had buried so many versions of myself in the beaches, fields, mountains, streams of my mind, that I had become more graveyard than generative being. Recently, I have begun reviving myself in earnest. In the way of rivers undammed, forests replanted, cinders giving way to soil, I am excited to see the revivification process, to see how I grow from here.

My hearth, nearly run cold, stoked again by friends, by adventures, by art. My gratitude is infinite; my love, boundless.