There is a stirring- an awakening- that swells in my chest just before the creation of an art piece. I tell you, there is urgency in the deepest folds of my soul to see creation.
The act of producing or causing to exist; the act of creating."
Formation.I see the hidden process of a piece; the intimate creation played out in masterful delicacy. I see the glory of life in the act of. I see God. The fruition and drawing-out of inspiration takes time. I witness first the flicker in the eyes of My Artist; their warm-brown melting, filling the brim of their almond shape with tales untold, with visions intangible. Until now. Pen sets sail upon paper, riding the waves of enthusiasm. For nights on end, My Artist collects magnifying detail on paper, the face of a man whom emerges from the mist collected around his head; his eyes cast out upon the sea of smoke before him. A sailor- his weathered face a charted map of his adventures of uncharted waters. Just as the Old Sailor begins to speak, obligations rob My Artist from continuing on with the unfinished piece. Days become weeks. Weeks become months. The unfinished piece is kept in the middle drawer of the flat files in the kitchen; it sits patiently waiting. My Artist creates in hours bought by another man; his time is commissioned. Where does My Artist find time to create where time is neither bought nor free? Where time does not exist? He fights for the opportunity. And I must help protect it. After what feels like an eternity, the wide drawer of the file slides forward and the faint screeches of seagulls float on the waft of tobacco smoke and a salted breeze. The Old Sailor is put upon the work desk beneath a single light, illuminating the darkness all around. The sky is clear and stars are bright. My Artist sets sail once more upon the rolling waves of another man’s memory.
Pencil and Charcoal.
November 2013-June 2014.
Follow the process on Jake's InstagramHannah Weidmann Wife. Guardian. Chronicler. Shepherd. Curator.