Please tell me that sleepless nights happen to all artists. This is when spirits, ghost and geniuses visit normally . Especially on the full moon eve, when the wolf nature awakens. But today during a seminar I learnt that this animal symbolizes our mind, and when not at peace it spins chasing its tail. Mine is clearly going crazy tonight. Continue reading
I received the first critical feedback regarding my work. It stroke me like a lightening and made me question the last couple of months I had so enthusiastically dedicated to creating. For a day or two I flooded myself with even more criticism and considered quitting the business. Continue reading
Already long time ago my dear friends said that I had a thing for words. I didn’t understand what they meant, as if someone told me “You’ve got white skin”. But now I get it from more people, so I’ve looked at my hands and I finally see it. OMG, I was so blind for my own passion. It was in me all that time, sleeping like a volcano. Continue reading
It is so important to have time for oneself, to be able to breathe out what we’ve inhaled throughout the day. The pictures, the conversations, the dreams, the problems. Everything. Not breathing properly may lead to an artistic hyperventilation. We may find ourselves in a panic call for survival. Continue reading
In order to be a real artist one needs to tap into their truth. And this lady can be ugly as hell, dark as a starless night, she can hurt, cut you in pieces, squeeze your heart with gross hands and make it hard for you to breathe. You prefer to keep her locked in a cellar and never mention her name during family meetings. You act as if she’s never existed and behave in a way not to let her “disturb” your peace, when what you need to is do is exactly the opposite.
By letting her see the sun light and meet your family members you take care of what others thought was a crippled part of you. Continue reading
I wrote a poem. I was proud of it, showed it to a friend, published it on a forum among other poets. Short story short, I was done with it. But then two days later I felt a bang against my head and heard this threatening voice “You’d better look at that poem again”! Ok, so I went back to it with the intention to rewrite it, correct it here and there, maybe crticize a little. And then I READ it!
That poem was for me. Continue reading
When I was 8 I got my first diary. My cousin Tomas, who was in his twenties, gave it to me for the first communion. On the same day I got my very first analog camera from my beloved godparents. Other kids got expensive gifts like bikes, computers and other long awaited devices, so on Monday following the ceremony I remember being a bit embarrassed at school for not being able to brag about extraordinary gifts. But when I was home alone I played with what I got! I took pictures on happy moments and I wrote away my sadness with the help of the notebook with a lock. I kept there all the words I’d not dare tell to my parents nor my best friends. That diary was my confidant and a shield from the outer world.
And now, when I am older, I wonder how these adults were capable of reaching that sweet little girl that I was and give something that was tailor made to fit the soul perfectly. How could they know what I loved before even I knew it? Continue reading