artistic integrity

I find this difficult to write. And now I've had to do it twice, having lost the first one, which doesn't make it any easier. I think I might have written it better and truer the first time, and while the image reminds me, the words are elusive and inexact.


On this day I cycled to visit friends, legs pounding, plugged into drum and bass, flat-out sprinting all the way.

In this state, thoughts spiral and soar, unbidden and unchecked.

Many of my friends are artists: writing, painting, music, sculpture, photos, dance, costume...

They are defined by their work and their need to work, as artists

I admire them, both for their talent and for their courage.

My flatmate Anna always says that I too am an artist, and I always disagree, unable to make the link between me and my piddling about, and her creative genius, and those other friends, and all those other artists, like the ones here on blip, who have the power to move, and to make you think, to inspire, to question, or simply to dance or to pass some time away from the mundane.

But today, high on endorphins, on post-wedding excitement, on summer and being, moving fast outside; I dare to think differently. And I think maybe I know what she means. I think about how creativity and art are an essential vital and integral part of my life. I cannot imagine life without it. Even if it never moves beyond being a support, encouragement for my friends. Even if it is only that I appreciate. Even if that is all, it is who I am. And I think about blipping, and how important this has become, that what is important to me is not only to see and share everyone else's images, and find out bits of their lives, but also that these are my words and my visions, and they are here too. And I dare to think that maybe, just maybe she might be right. That I too, am, in my own way.

In this temporary state of exhilaration I even allowed myself to make some future plans for things I want and need to do. Maybe also fed by the encouragement of blipping. But I think of a future.

I think these things but when I write them down they sound corny, pretentious and arrogant. I am embarrassed by them.

Don't get above yourself. Later, over-tired and empty, I drop into a black mood of despair and self-pity that has nothing beautiful about it, and it lasts for days, and I cannot understand how I could have been so full of myself.

But I did think these things, even if only for a summer afternoon. I did. That is true.