The third dimension

I’ve been trying to extend my dabbling novice creative skills into something more substantial. It has taken me a great deal of time (many years in fact) to realise that artistically speaking, I am almost always working in only two dimensions. I can paint a picture, describe a scene, show a snapshot, play a scale, but when it comes to telling a story all I seem to do is string together snippets that don’t necessarily seem to fit. I’ll provide a rich scene and then tack a twist on the end, and tell myself that’s basically a story. In short, I have hitherto lacked the foresight to bring the third dimension of time into my efforts. I believe that this, at least in part, stems from my misplaced core belief that art comes from somewhere guttural and insentient, that does not need to obey the normal laws of planning and contextual consideration. As I mentioned before I am challenging that belief and trying to push past the ideal of creative purity and dirtying my creations with consideration and positive self-criticism. A really tough lesson for me is planning. I try to make an animation…I realise immediately that I lack the equipment and skill to make what is in my head. The simplest plans are laid in ruins by the blight of poor lighting. I can’t say I’m exactly proud of the silent movie snippet above, but I’m not disappointed either. It has taught me a little about timing, lighting, and angles. But on this occaission, they don’t really work for me, because there is no story. And stories are what make this whole damned life worth living.

No more roses

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Rosaceae are on the move again.

Curling thorns blotting out the sun,
Casting shadows over
the shadows I no longer want to see.
Leaving only moonlight to bathe in.
Gauzy hues and iridescence
where the gaudy and asinine used to lay.
A history reconstructed.
Shading in emotions were there were none.
I seem only to remember us
twisted together in those thorns,
Delicate and tessellated.
Morphing into something we never were
and could never be.
If things had really felt that way,
I never would have left
I never would have fallen asleep.

In my dream, when you said your wife
would love this song,
A part of me withered.
The stillborn fantasy that only awakens in my sleep.
Part of me yearning for something
in the memory of your face that wasn’t you.
Awaking with an overwhelming sensation of loss.
Eyes wide open
And incandescence burns off the thorns,
Leaving a truth bare and brutal
That I won’t mourn.

Don’t give me roses, Love
They will only contaminate my other world.

(c) Accidental Tentacles 2016

Pet

“stay with me”
The words ripple, soothingly; dripping with soporific ambition. Mesmeric wave upon wave of verbal kisses on the forehead. That placid voice, synonymous in my psyche with protection, rising godlike in its ever-abounding professions. Awed and humbled, I relax back momentarily into the welcoming embrace of familiarity, letting habitual trances snake their way through repetition of gently undulating thoughts.
“just stay with me”
The timbre of that voice weaves a great net of protection to cradle me, and guide me gently and safely back here, like I’m something precious and fragile, like maybe I’m something worth saving. The silvery liquid of those words from above have buried me so deep, and in this viscous womb, clensed all curiosity from me. My thickened lungs have forgotten how to breathe in the waking world. And yet, and yet, this eternal slumber is both the prize and the price of keeping me safe, and for that I am endebted. It no longer matters how we got here, does it?
Other voices float on past, tethered to driftwood, rippling the mirrored surface above me. Tenuously stirring something gruesome that’s slumbering in my mind. Nothing issuing from those chaotic mouths could hope to drag me from this ocean floor. Nothing out there could scratch the surface of an insular existence so wholesome.
“pay no mind what other voices say”
A mere twitch of the eyelash before I’m settling once again into the rich silt of our haven. I’ve been saved for so long from the “poison devils” of truth, choice and pain, but even so the cycles of sleep bear me periodically towards the surface. That dangerous sedated creature inside my mind, suddenly thirsting to drink in the air of consciousness, I hear the voice again.
“pay no mind to the rabble ”
I’ve been floating here so long, treading water, ignorant and safe, that temptation to entrust threatens to overwhelm. Like Ophelias last moments, I watch the surface undulate before my eyes. It’s not voices that pull at me now, as for the first time, they blur and merge onto a cacophony of torrents, nothing but counterpoint to some new strange sensation. As my fingers lazily skim the surface, I feel a shuddering chill of fear as the spell is broken; the billowing dread of the unknown floods in. It’s like I’m wide awake and drowning in those words, so recently pacifying. The searing pain of wrenching my psyche inside-out from the other world almost has me back at those feet, begging forgiveness, but this time, maybe this time, I could learn to swim.

Precious. I know how you only tried.
But you can’t save me from myself.

This was a techical exercise I set myself; drawing out the lyrics of a song into a descriptive short story. Of sorts. I mean, I’ve more or less got the descriptive bit down but teasing it out into a coherent story…that’s going to take practise!

Here’s the song in case you don’t know it.

Living room mask

I made my first stopped motion video and played a couple of notes on the violin. It probably sucks big time but it was fun to make! I call this creation “living room mask” on account of it being a mask in my living room.

Lesson 1 was, you cannot hope to make a stopped motion film without a tripod (thanks amazon!) Good grief! What will I turn my hand to next?

But I’m no [Mozart, Monet, Milne]!

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i’ve been idly wondering about what ‘art’ and ‘creativity’ really mean. We all know about Mozart, Monet and Milne, but what about that young lass who makes incredible iced cupcakes, or that weird lad next door who makes peculiar noises with his guitar, or that guy who stands in the street dressed like a robot…I mean, where do we draw the line?

I’m not sure that there is a strict definition of what ‘things’ constitute ‘art’ that will ever be widely accepted. The truth is that people can consider a huge variety of things artistic, or, as I like to think of it, evocative of emotion beyond the sum of their ingredients. Poor planning means that I’ve effectively already answered what would have been my second ponderous step in this preamble; consideraction of the point that one’s creations can be considered art.

The amazing thing is, that anyone can create, can make something entirely unique. You can go and write a story, or draw a flower, record yourself singing and you will have done just that – made something that only you can. But writing a story…does that make you creative? (yep) Does it make you a writer? Does it make you an artist? Now the latter two questions boil down to perception. How do you see yourself and your creations, and how do others. Most importantly, how does creating things make you feel, and how do those who experience your creations feel?

You already know that you’ve been born with the innate ability to create something new, but do you ever feel inspired but worry that you don’t have the skills for expression? Or do you feel expressive but worry that you don’t have anything to say? I would love to know what anyone has to lose by trying. I’ve spent years telling myself that I can’t do x or y because I’ll be no good, or no-one will care, or worse, I’ll ruin the nebulous dream that I have unfulfilled artistic potential!

But the problem is that when you start something new, you kind of suck at it. You think about old paganini while you scratch out twinkle-twinkle on your new violin and you tell yourself that you simply aren’t talented. Well. I’ve got news for you little buddy. All great artists are great because they honed their skills, they pushed themselves, they practised and practised until they earned emotional responses deserved of their ferocious hard work.

So. When you go and try drawing a flower now (and you really should), or colour in an adult colouring book, think about how you feel, and focus on your technique, learn from your trials and one day, maybe your oil paintings will be hanging in my hallway, your book nestling in my kindle, or your music filling the air. You don’t have to be famous to make art, you don’t have to be even remotely popular, and even if your cat hates your poems and tells you to stop using Oxford commas, don’t let that stop you, because creating something that makes you feel satisfied is plently good enough ­čÖé

Why am encouraging rampant creativity? Because I want to learn new ways of expression and I don’t want to be the only one posting an array of stuff that I might be proud of as tiny achievements but will probably, for the large part, be a bit sucky to start with. I’d like to mention that I have a great deal of respect for technical proficiency in all walks of life, and believe that no matter how much of a maverick you may think yourself, reigning in on the anarchy and learning the basics is a valuable lesson to learn in pretty much every situation. Let’s face it, you can’t know everything about everything, and, no, I don’t think it’s cool to colour outside of the lines, it’s just lazy. But moving the lines, redrawing, reinterpretting, now that is what I’m aiming for.

There are so many amazing skilled people out there who make animations, take great photographs, who write and record music, who draw comics, I mean, how on earth do they do that?! Have you ever tried? Where do you start? We largely take for granted that we see and hear polished works every day with little thought as to how they were made. But I want to have a go too!! No matter how painful it is!

Oh, and send me your pictures of flowers if you draw them!