Inspiration
The question is asked of me in different ways - but it is asked often: who or what inspires you?
Most questions I can shrug off with a canned answer. But this question often haunts me. Who or what inspires me? It knocks around the inner cavern of my soul like a — well - it knocks around. I can remember when I was young - the idea of inspiration. Breath from the muse. Maybe a favorite author. What would Henry Miller have written? Melville?
It’s all very a-musing. You sit at your desk and just before you write the great short story a misty hand touches you. You are embraced by a feverish but invisible presence and you suddenly have an epiphany and greatness follows you all the rest of the day until the next creative roadblock.
Am I inspired by great photographers? Can I find anyone inspirational about anything? I don’t know - Madame Curie? There’s an inspirational life. Yeah, I think the scientists - the inventors - the Wright Bros. can be inspirational. But not in the artistic sense.
I wish I could cite some American idols as inspiring me. But I can’t.
If inspiration does make an entrance it happens when I walk around.
That’s all it is. The impressionists waltz out into the plein air and are impressed with nature. Or with the ballet dancers. Or something actual makes an impression on them and gets translated in some mysterious way into art.
I’m just the same way. I walk out of the house and without looking (if I’m doing it right) for anything in particular - something with specific particularity and with very specific qualities inspires me to try and capture it.
That instant of inspiration can be thought out to a greater or lesser or degree - but it usually not fully understood at the moment. Inspiration can be remembered - but there isn’t enough time to analyze it at the moment of shutter depression.
So there you have it. I am inspired to some degree - all the time - but it is by something that I think or feel about the specific external thing - which could be anything. People places objects leaves bricks juxtaposition of forms, a touch of light. If this were 200 years ago - it would be called nature. Now it’s just called - I don’t know - there is no word for it that I can come