As a contribution to a blog the purpose of which is to share thoughts about what it means to be an artist in relation to other aspects of life, it might seem odd that I want to write today about not being an artist. Today has not been an easy one. I’m struggling with a persistent back-strain, I have no opportunity to prepare for any exhibition opportunity during the current health emergency, and I have no creative projects in mind waiting to be tackled. (That is in ascending order of their status as burdens.) My wife is beginning (I suspect) to be irritated by my condition as “Little Bear Growly”.
Why this should be so, according to many people I’m sure, is a mystery. So much in life is just fine. There I was, sitting in the garden in the sunshine a few minutes ago, listening to the bees, contemplating a good dinner and a pleasant evening in an on-line cocktail party with other members of the family, there was nothing to be growly about, and yet I was feeling wretched. Then it occurred to me that the situation is understandable, given my activity as an artist.
Most other occupations, I’m sure, would embrace time out with enthusiasm. Work might be fine, but it is always welcome when there is a break. I remember being like that when I was working as an academic. It was very much a vocation, but never an obsession. There was never this feeling that if I stopped writing or preparing a lecture I was falling down on the job, or even that I had forfeited my claim to be a sociologist.
Thinking about it, I admit that probably I need to get a grip. Surely there is more to life than art …. isn’t there?