I had my three children in three years. (It didn’t take much back then, just washing our clothes in the same batch could have done the trick…) During those years when they were small, I took some time off from painting. Once I was out of the acute care phase and could consider getting back to work, I found a studio space and just assumed I could pick up right where I left off.
It didn’t work out that way. There was a petulant, resistant energy in me that had no intentions of doing what she was told. This took me by surprise. I didn’t know that the artist in me could get very pissed and uncooperative. Up until that point in time, she had been attended to very well. My short term hiatus from working—all for a good reason—felt like a betrayal to her.
So I talked with a wise friend about what I should do. She told me that I needed to woo my artist self the way I would a lover—shower her with gifts and attention. Make visits to see her, but don’t overstay. Dish up hefty helpings of sweet nothings. Be patient in winning her over.
It was unexpected but extremely wise advice. And eventually the resistance dissipated.
So I am in a similar place once again. Now the hard work begins—the court and spark, the cajoling, the sweet talking. Come on, baby, give me a chance. I’m all yours…
From the wall of green glass in my studio
Yes, sometimes it is a playful and sweet seduction.
In some cases it can be a darker and more painful story. Sometimes the muse herself can be feeling fragile or frightened. So then patience and gentleness are the watchwords. I don’t think it dampens the joy, ultimately, do you? In fact, perhaps the opposite.
To the Muse
It is all right. All they do
Is go in by dividing
One rib from another. I wouldn’t
Lie to you. It hurts
Like nothing I know. All they do
Is burn their way in with a wire.
It forks in and out a little like the tongue
Of that frightened garter snake we caught
At Cloverfield, you and me, Jenny
So long ago.
I would lie to you
If I could.
But the only way I can get you to come up
Out of the suckhole, the south face
Of the Powhatan pit, is to tell you
What you know:
You come up after dark, you poise alone
With me on the shore.
I lead you back to this world.
Three lady doctors in Wheeling open
Their offices at night.
I don’t have to call them, they are always there.
But they only have to put the knife once
Under your breast.
Then they hang their contraption.
And you bear it.
It’s awkward a while. Still it lets you
Walk about on tiptoe if you don’t
Jiggle the needle.
It might stab your heart, you see.
The blade hangs in your lung and the tube
Keeps it draining.
That way they only have to stab you
Once. Oh Jenny.
I wish to God I had made this world, this scurvy
And disastrous place. I
Didn’t, I can’t bear it
Either, I don’t blame you, sleeping down there
Face down in the unbelievable silk of spring,
Muse of the black sand,
Alone.
I don’t blame you, I know
The place where you lie.
I admit everything. But look at me.
How can I live without you?
Come up to me, love,
Out of the river, or I will
Come down to you.
–James Wright