Books. Film. Art. Nature. Regurgitated and broken up into spliced squares and reels on Instagram. Do I really find my inspiration on Instagram? Reading the words of artists, philosophers, insane people, and poets. Walking under the trees and looking up. Walking in a new neighborhood shopping the color of the walls and the roof on Poe street in tucson. The orange trees reeking of blossom pollen and bee breath. It all helps me decide what colors to choose next. What textures to fall into. What form to breathe.
It’s only recently I’ve been able to access the deep. That place where you’re quite literally extracting the experience and letting it surface from your insides to your limbs and onto the canvas. It has been a lot more cathartic and less technical as of late. It feels a lot like I’m supposed to bear my soul. The playlists on youtube have also been really helpful for finding the spiritual. Aligning with the proper sounds to engage with the spirit of what it is the act of painting is supposed to say or not. I can find myself closing my eyes and moaning, grunting, shouting, or softly chanting as my body rocks back and forth.
The guitar has also been an instrument of channeling. Things and sounds and movements, work I can’t really explain it just feels like it's supposed to happen. I can’t really be okay until it happens. And then I take a break. I have to walk away and put it all aside, step in a completely different direction and focus on something else for a time so my soul can rest again because I do feel that it takes something from me, something big, something necessary and I have to recharge to do it all over again.