Breakin in the city.
Crackin’ shells of smoke to bricks
I’m right here - crunched on the corner of a bed that belongs to the man that I love in Astoria, New York. I have taken over a closet, and bits and pieces of his cabinets in his kitchen – slightly homeless since my return to New York. I say slightly, because it feels right, I may not have my own walls to hold all of my things, but my heart feels safe here.
With safety, my artist within becomes dormant, not wanting to risk. Is art only a way of survival? Could I possibly be disconnecting from something that I hold so sacred? Terrified of creating a risk in something that seems so safe?
Glancing out his window that I have cracked that leads to a roof that I could sit on, and listen to the birds chirp. Shuttering at the thought.
I curl up with a cup of coffee, a notepad, a pack of smokes, and a pad of paper – to pause. Pausing, an important part of every day, of me.
As the ink sits settled in place, I ponder over the blank sheets through my meaning of life, my art, the importance of art in my life, options for creation, and where my passions really sit. I know with confidence that art has a massive weight of importance on my life. This, I am sure. When my mind climbs into my rollercoaster of worries, anxiety, and fears – I am able to pick and pluck it out of me by picking up a medium, and letting my hands do the talking. As my hands shuffle through the fog, they start creating – the most wonderful emptiness and peace enters my mind. I step into awareness, a sense of present moment, and slowly untangle the mess of the thoughts of future and memories of the past. Shedding things that aren’t affecting my current breath, and stepping into nirvana. The clearer my present stance becomes, the more precise the creation becomes, beginning a clutter to evolve into clarity. As my hands pull away, the layers of my fog have compressed into a piece of art – a brick to place with my other stepping-stones.
Art to me is action. Art to me is to create something that can stand larger than you; reach and connect to more people, and last longer than my heartbeat will. Art is a beautiful form of communication, and those who listen can connect to something intangible – indescribable – a connection deeper than our vocal cords. A silent connection where the artist and viewer may never be face to face – their physical borders may not even be known… or even alive to be present for it – and it still stands. Beautiful connections that circle from start to finish, with you.
Art is taking a risk to reveal parts of myself to be viewed by anyone’s eyes that take the time to settle on my work. Revealing precious for your precious.
So, surrounded by a lover’s walls has an opportunity to become precious to me. Respecting the space, creating in it, and connecting with it will crack the egg, for the juices to flow out, an opportunity for the fog to be aired - just another brick to add to the pile.
Stretching out, I reach for another swig of coffee, a cigarette, and a fresh set of eyes.
Cracking the shell. This is just the beginning.