Episode 79: Art, Sex & Life

Ahhh, how to fall in love with the world again? ROADMAPS!!! A COMPASS!!! OR, HOPEFULLY, NON-ABRASIVE GPS VOICE GUIDANCE!!! THE TRULY VIBRANTLY ALIVE!!! WE BELONG HERE!!! A 1970’s MOTORCYCLE!!! 12 OYSTERS!!! AN INTERVIEW WITH MYSELF!!! NONE OF IT IS LOST!!! & I will remember this time. I will.

Excerpt from the episode:

“Ahhh

How to fall in love with the world again after a long period of anxiety and complacency?

This is the true question.

And I think the only adequate answer is art.

To live art, to make it, to talk about it, to experience it. To spend time with people that live and breathe it.

It is strange that I would not consider myself an artist anymore. I would consider myself a maker of things, but not necessarily an artist. I make socks. I make a sweater. I make a radio show. But how much of it do I really consider art? I used to paint prolifically and photograph everything, and hell I owned my own ceramics company for 2 years. Sold almost every piece I ever made besides the ones I kept. But I think now I take my artist’s mind and I use it inside of people’s lives. I often tell my clients, that what I am good at is building roadmaps out of suffering, out of suffering. But only you can follow it. Only you know how. I can present you with the map, the tools, the compass, and the hopefully non-abrasive GPS voice guidance, but you have to find your way home.

My art has become my ability to hold still, to listen, to be a compassionate immovable force in the world. To return to my heart again and again and take another deep breath. I'm right here with you.

I remember reading once that someone suffered from incredible depression. They had tried everything, they had gone to therapy, taken drugs, done hallucinogenics, exercised, ate well. And nothing seemed to help. Then one day a friend told them, “you must surround yourself with artists, and your life will be full, magical, tragic, beautiful, joyful.” And so they did. They went to art shows, galleries, and dance halls. And they surrounded themselves with the artists, the abstract thinkers, the truly vibrantly alive, and their life began to transform before them. There was love in every object. There was a place for their ideas, their triumphs, and sorrows. Because in art, there is a place for it all. In true art, it reflects to us that we belong here. If even only for a fleeting moment, our own little corner of the world.

And in some ways, lately, I had forgotten that. Until I drove to Hudson with a dear friend (actually an old lover of mine, the first woman I ever slept with). We drove out across the mountains and sat in my favorite cafe and we ate good food and drank mocktails, and we talked about art. And they told me stories about the trials and follies of living in the art world in New York City, of scraping by, of the perfection of destroyed artwork reclaimed. Of love lost, of self found. And I remembered that to truly live, we must be surrounded by the artists. Because it reminds us that everything is art, a plate of food, a rolled cigarette, a vacant gallery, a 1970s motorcycle.

And I remembered that I used to be more adventurous, more daring, more curious. I used to take apart motorcycles just to see how they fit together again. Cleaned and shined with engines roaring. I used to fall in love with people on the street outside of a bar, take them home, spend a night with them. I miss that part of me sometimes. And I often feel that woman, the artist, was so tied up within my drinking that maybe I lost her a little along my sober way.

I sometimes imagine maybe I used to be more fun, more open, more spontaneous. But all of those parts of me are still there, maybe now with a healthy dose of caution or reason. But they exist.

But there is this funny thing that happens when I get out of my own way when I am listening to someone else’s story, along the drive, or down the street. Where everything I encounter becomes magic. Magical realism, if you will. I have exactly enough change to run the meter for just enough time before parking becomes free. The blue linen dress in the window feels like someone made it off of my frame and put it into a shop on the side of the street. The 12 oysters instead of 4 arrive at the table, and they just turn out to be exactly what we needed. Just enough gas I had forgotten about to get us right back home. I go into the gas station looking for only one thing, attendant hands me some hand sanitizer, “don't worry about it, keep it, we got cases.”

Everything moves and breathes and feels around me. And I can sense it. I can hear the motorcycle say something about the open road. The ceramic candle holders in the Spanish or Portuguese or or shop, I can feel clay under my hands. None of it is lost. I have just wandered in another direction for a moment.

“You have to let me paint you,” my days of sitting still while artists paint my naked body remind me of the force I feel when warm and under constructive study. Each muscle in my body its own unique work of art.

And once again, I can sense it. The red thread running all the way through my life — of connection, of vibrancy, of art. Calling me home.

Art is how I have learned to fall in love with myself; over and over again.

I will remember this time. I will.

So with that, here is some music…"