I recently took it upon myself to transform two of my earlier 3' x 4' pieces into new works of art. I thought it might be interesting to show the original and the new together.
Project One:
Child Eyes Crossed, 2008
I Was Born This Way ... please stay, 2011
Project Two:
I'm on Fire (2009)
The Meeting, 2012*
*The Meeting is still in progress but almost complete.
Watch for my interview with artist Christian Tango ... coming within the week!
My guest today, writer and editor, Elissa Schappell, has reminded me of two common assumptions about highly creative individuals:
1) " ... it seems a lot of writers are born missing a layer of skin. We feel things more keenly than others. We hear and see things others don’t. We know stuff you don’t want to know, feel stuff you don’t want to feel, and obsess over things you don’t want obsess over."
2) "You really can't give a shit about what people are going to say about your work."
I agree 100 percent.
Now, can someone explain to me how these two important concepts are supposed to work together?
I've been thinking about this since Elissa's insightful interview answers popped into my inbox. Okay, that's a lie. I've been obsessing over it for years. I repeatedly tell myself that I don't care what people think about my writing and art, but I do. I've never written or painted for a particular audience, but once it's out there, I absolutely care what people think. I let it hurt me; I let it thrill me. Telling myself not to care is akin to telling a gay or lesbian individual to just stop, a black man to turn white, or a short woman to put on a few inches ... as if they can, and should want to. Ignore the wiring, conquer it, or deny it; there's something wrong with you.
Here's my theory ... about myself anyway. I spent half my life building alternatives to keep me emotionally safe. Yet I need that skinless me (the real me) to experience all the things that feed my creativity and enable me to reflect honesty in my art. So back and forth I go, building up and tearing down, over and over again.
This brings me to a third common assumption: the highly creative tend to be screwed up.
Go figure.
I'm tired of building alternatives for my skinless nature. I'm ready to be real like the women in Elissa's great new book, Blueprints for Building Better Girls.
What is your writing story--in a nutshell?
I’ve always been a writer, since the time I was a kid. I started keeping a diary when I was in fourth or fifth grade. It’s a bit mad. I started off writing in a different persona—why? I don’t know. It was where I channeled my anger. There are pages of swear words. And a troubling amount of godawful poetry, plus a dirty limerick or two. Perhaps I was smart enough to not to want to have my named attached to that business.
Really though I just read and wrote all the time. We weren’t allowed to watch TV save for one the weekends, so I spent a lot of time in my room listening to music and writing. It’s really the only thing in my life I’ve been even passably good at, other than limbo and drawing fairies. Oh and making prank phone calls, which came in really handy when I had my first real job where I was paid to write, which was at SPY magazine.
Now, I’m unfit for anything but this life. Which is unfortunate.
Was there someone in particular who inspired you to love books and/or take an interest in writing?
My parents always encouraged my reading, and writing. It kept me off the street. Honestly, the only thing I believe that I ever got a lot of positive attention for was my writing. Which was nice because though I did well in my academics—save for math--most of the attention I received was for being a wisecracker, drawing in my notebook and talking to my neighbor.
However, if I were to point to one person, who early on inspired me, I’d say my grandmother on my father’s side. She was always making things, crafts—embroidering, sewing, knitting, making beaded jewelry--she stressed how important it was to use your imagination. I remember clearly sitting on the sofa with her reading, and then her asking me to close my eyes and imagine my own story. I seem to recall it was about mice driving race cars. I remember thinking, Wow that’s pretty amazing. Imagine someone caring about that.
I recently watched a video where you talk about the need to write exactly what you feel compelled to write. Can you share with us why you believe it's critical for a writer to bravely tackle tough subject matter even when it seems the world doesn't want to embrace it?
I have discovered through painful trial and error, that I have to write the stories that want to be written. The ones that feel the most immediate, and a little scary to me. I need to be excited by them. A little obsessed. That’s the trick for me, hook into the obsession and then let it pull me along, stay with it, ride it out. Understand, these stories aren’t always the ones I think are the cleverest, or the most “important”. I just know that to try and do anything else is folly.
I’m not at all suggesting that other writers should, or shouldn’t, tackle certain subject matter. Everything is permissible. And everybody’s got their own jam.
What I am saying is that for me, personally, this is what I feel compelled to do. It’s my sickness. To say what other people are thinking and feeling, but can’t articulate, or won’t articulate. My job, as I see it, is to be truthful. I detest phonies. Lying is not one of my strengths. And I’ve learned that any writer who doesn’t work in the direction of their strengths is a stone cold idiot.
I don’t feel brave. I feel lucky that, for the most part, I get to do what I want with my life. I’m in a position where I can say what I want. No one is going to knock on my door in the middle of the night, break my glasses, and drag me off to prison. Or not yet, however, given the rise of anti-intellectualism if Obama isn’t reelected I may start answering the door with a kitchen knife in hand.
You really can’t give a shit about what people are going to say about your work. Embrace it, don’t embrace it, I don’t care. I believe if you are writing truthfully about an authentic human experience in an engaging, original way a reader will connect to it. Perhaps only one reader, and perhaps it will be your mother, who is not without prejudice, even so. Even if they don’t embrace it, you didn’t compromise, you didn’t pander. That is something, or at least it is to me.
You surely can’t worry about the reader’s reaction to your work when you’re writing. Not if it’s going to stop you. You have to write as though your audience is going to understand perfectly where you are coming from that your motives are pure, and, of course, that these characters aren’t in fact you.
With regard to your new book, Blueprints for Building Better Girls, was there an "ah-ha" moment you can tell us about?
I realized what the book was becoming, and what I wanted it to be, when in reaction to a voice I’d had in my head for a while--the voice of the party girl in “Out of the Blue”--saying, “Why don’t you write about me?” –I answered, “Because you’re a ridiculous person.” I realized then that what I was doing, dismissing this character because I thought she wasn’t worth writing about, I knew her story already, was exactly what I was railing against in the other stories. The way the culture labels women, and judges them and how damaging it is.
Do you believe some of the various attributes related to being highly creative have caused you aberrations in life, helped you deal with life's aberrations, or both? How so?
Being crazy isn’t a bad thing. The trick is sustaining a level of sanity and calm in the rest of your life so that you don’t flame out.
For me, writing is the place to dump out my anger, anxiety, pain, and sort through it, obsessively. To make sense of it. And make something out of it, however gaudy or ugly.
Have you ever had to deal with people in your life failing to understand your creative personality, interests, or drive? If so, can you tell us about it and how you've dealt with it?
Of course, but there’s really little you can do about that. You can try and pass as normal to please people, to ingratiate yourself into the company you want to be a part of. You can apologize for feeling what you feel, you can make yourself small in order to make other people feel bigger, but it will kill you by inches. I’ve been very fortunate that while I didn’t really find “my people” meaning other writers and people who were passionate about making art until I moved to New York after college, my family has, as much as humanly possible, always been tolerant.
Have you developed a specific creative process that enables you to meet your writing goals? If so, can you tell us about it, and also share any thoughts you may have on the role the discipline and organization play in reaching creative goals?
Discipline and organization aren’t sexy, they’re not nearly as exciting as being almighty god and creating a world, about but they’re essential if you’re ever going to make a living as writer. Frankly, if you’re going to suffer like this, making some money is a really nice thing to do.
Being a writer is a job like any other job. You could argue it’s not nearly as important as being a bus driver. If a bus driver doesn’t show up for work or is late, hundreds of people suffer. People are late to work, kids are late to school, sick people miss doctor’s appointments, and the lovers, each waiting in the rain miss each other and are never reunited. Each dies alone with their cat.
The writer doesn’t do their job, who cares?
The writer may lose their contract, they may have their lights turned off, they may go hungry, but really outside of those who love them and support them, who cares? You can’t get too precious about it.
I need to write in the morning, before the really super critical part of my brain wakes up. She sleeps in because she is up a good part of the night screening home movies of all my various failures and reciting my list of recent crimes. It is best if I get out of my house, so I go to the studio, sit at a proper desk, put in my earplugs so I can’t hear anyone else there typing, and work until I can’t.
Has writing Blueprints for Building Better Girls changed you and your ideas about being a woman in any way?
Not that I’m aware of yet, but surely it must have.
You are also a contributing editor for Vanity Fair, a former editor of The Paris Review, and a founding editor and now editor-at-large of Tin House. What are the differences and/or similarities between the skill set and talents required for great editing and those required for excellent writing?
You can’t be a writer without being an editor of your own work. Ninety percent of my writing time is spent revising and editing. That’s where the pleasure is, the fixing, figuring out what you’re trying to say and saying it as clearly and compellingly as possible. Editing yourself requires you to get some distance from your work so you can look at it dispassionately, and do what needs to be done. Whereas editing others requires you to get closer to the work. You have to think like the writer a bit. Figure out what their intent is, and looking at the work through that lens figure out how to improve the story.
I find it much easier to see what I perceive the weaknesses in someone else’s work versus my own. I am very lucky to have a few trusted readers who help me out in this regard.
What is your primary motto or mantra in life?
Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage. --Anais Nin
Okay, I realize this may be controversial for some folks; I may be struck down by the hand of God at any time today, but lately it's occurred to me that art provides many of the things that Jesus is supposed to give me ... redemption, purpose, love, meaning, joy, healing, etc. Of course, I don't know that art can give eternal salvation, but I do know that it can save a soul. It did just that for my friend, artist Jean Marc Calvet.
I met Jean Marc a year or two ago through Monkdogz Urban Art (NYC). We struck up a friendship after I interviewed him on Aberration Nation. I later also interviewed Dominic Allan, the film director/producer, who was so taken by Jean Marc's story that he spent four or so years making a documentary about the artist's incredible life.
This weekend, I finally saw the film, CALVET, in its entirety. I knew a lot about it before hand. What I didn't know was how deeply I would identify with certain aspects of Jean Marc's tale.
We all have some sort of story; we have our own personal demons, although for some of us those demons are more terrifying than others. The question I most often ask myself is how many of those demons were tossed at me, and how many did I conjure up myself. And for those that I did create, how in God's name could I have avoided it?
When I watched Jean Marc's story, and took in just how simultaneously tough and gentle he is, I could so clearly see how the circumstances of our lives turn us into monsters. I wondered what makes a man look into the mirror and decide that he no longer wants to be monstrous, and if a true monster even has such thoughts. Perhaps the true devils just keep on being monstrous until they finally drop dead and go to monster hell. Perhaps it's actually the fallen angels of our world who can recognize the demons inside and find the courage to battle them. Like the incessant drive to create, maybe it's a simultaneous catch and release. Good news and bad.
Some days I look in the mirror and see a monster. Maybe you do as well. I don't want to see it but I know it's there. I hide it. I chase it. I squelch it and cover it up. And in that never ending game--that dysfunctional relationship I have with myself--I sometimes love it, too. If I didn't, the whole stinking business wouldn't be so difficult.
For Jean Marc, it was ultimately the language of art and a profound love for his son that propelled him back to life. This theme was brilliantly seared into my heart during a few pivotal scenes in the movie.
In one episode, Jean Marc recounts how he listened to his parents fight each night when the lights went out. How he tried not to listen, but also wanted to hear what was being said. How he buried his head in his pillow and then tried to forget the terrible things he'd heard when he woke each morning. Jean Marc's expressive explanation of how this emotionally influenced him as a child slammed me straight back to my own small home where my parents fought 24/7. Yelling, screaming, hitting, crying .... deposit after deposit of heightened emotional turmoil into the heart of a child. How can we possibly avoid those early monsters ushered in by the adults we love?
In another scene, Jean Marc describes how as a teen / very young adult he was violently raped by a large, brutish stranger. The audience sat holding our breath as we listened to Jean Marc's moving confessional. How he sat outside on a park bench for two days after the incident, numb and dying inside, angered by those who had hurt him. After the rape, the monsters in Jean Marc came into full force, determined to not only hurt others but to also hurt himself. It's a punishment we need to inflict on ourselves. Somehow we blame ourselves as a way to hide, to push the pain we can't bare away. Let me feel this and that and whatever other horrible thing I can so as to wipe all this other stuff away. In the end, it's an emotional trap.
At Monkdogz' exhibition of Jean Marc's work (which runs through tomorrow), artist Esther Barend and I talked about the scene and I said to her, "I've never been raped like that ....but I feel like I have."
Isn't that a ballsy thing to say? Should I be ashamed?
No, because perhaps you and I haven't experienced exactly what happened to Jean Marc that terrible day, but we may have felt some of the same emotions. Being used, physically hurt, and/or severely mistreated by someone bigger, stronger, and domineering causes a universal pain. Jean Marc had the guts to tell us how it feels and as we listened, we knew we were hearing something profoundly honest.
The third scene that indelibly sticks with me is one in which Jean Marc describes how he stumbled upon art, and how doing so saved his life. This is the part that reminds me of Jesus.
I grew up being told that Jesus is the answer to everything. I know there are millions of people out there who believe and will testify to the healing power of that message. I've heard all the testimony. I was spoon fed the information for year upon year, the same years that my own monsters were developing.
Jean Marc describes how he stumbled upon some buckets of paint during the lowest point in his life, a time when he was literally taking his own life. In a drug induced rage, he "fought" with the paint and the surfaces nearest to him as if it were all an extension of his misery, anger, and hopelessness.
In my own way, I've experience a similar struggle. I channeled life into something inanimate and then struggled with it. I fought with it as if to save my life somehow. In a fit of rage, I once sat in my car on the side of the road and violently ripped an entire bulky textbook apart into tiny pieces as if it was all that I hated, all that I wanted to conquer in myself that I couldn't pull forth and destroy. Instead the book became something alive that I could hurt and once I started, I couldn't stop; I ripped every single page to shreds as if it were the flesh and blood of a person being ripped from its spine, and then I ripped the front and back covers from the stringy, tight center. It was in that same week that I also attempted to take my own life.
Such was Jean Marc's nightmarish battle times 1,000, and in the end, he stepped back and saw his emotions. I too, saw my emotions in the mutilation of something I loved most in the world (books). Maybe in some way, you've seen yours. For Jean Marc, it was magnified and redemptive because in that moment he found salvation.
He found art.
Jean Marc's remarkable discovery was the scene that brought back to me the idea of art being like Jesus ... the reason for the season. The end of the road, the pot of gold we search for in all our suffering and flight from whatever monsters and demons life has shown us, and from those we've created for ourselves.
We're all apples and oranges of some sort, but in our heart of hearts, we're all human. The depth of our capacity to experience love, shame, hatred, joy, degradation, etc. likely varies but our ability to feel it, to recognize it, lies deep in the kernel of who we are.
Dominic Allan's CALVET takes one man's struggle and shows us our own.
I'll continue to think about art being like Jesus, and wonder if it could ever give us eternal salvation. It's a perplexing question because for Jean Marc, it just may do that. His may be the testimony heard through the ages. The call others continue to hear when they seem to have nothing left.
"The creative cave is the looniest, loneliest place in the world. Ultimately it’s the scariest and safest place as well."
I grew up in a special type of loony, lonely cave. A place where contradiction was king. Creativity enabled me to envision another world, a future where all the confusing fragments of my life might perfectly align. Was I a hungry kid on the streets, in the gutter, or scraping by in a refugee camp? No, I grew up in Shreveport, Louisiana in the 1970's under the emotional thumb of a mentally ill mother.
It certainly could have been worse.
Today artist and writer, John K. Lawson, tells us that the creative cave is the looniest, loneliest place in the world. So why the heck am I hanging out in it when I'm still trying to divorce myself from all the lunacy and loneliness of my childhood?
John also says it can be the safest place.
I'm not a expert on psychology but hasn't it been said that we often feel the urge to go home again? I've been simultaneously running away and toward home for years, and it's caused me a great deal of inner turmoil. I don't know what it means or which way I'm supposed to go. My writing and art have given me an outlet for that turmoil, and that's why I'm painfully sensitive about it. Why I want it to ultimately be meaningful and have inherent value.
I'm one of those borderline philosophical sad sacks who spend pathetic amounts of time thinking about "what it's all for," and "what it all means." I look at the thousands of words I've written and the art I've created, and ask myself, "Am I pouring years of my life into something that means nothing?" When I die, will it all turn to dust and blow away? Am I just a misguided idiot wasting precious time? Is John?
With regard to creating art, John says, "It takes guts and sometimes stupidity. You have to have an ego strong enough to accept that the creative force is not always a pretty smiling greeting card, and what you are making might not fit over the proverbial couch or match the newest art fad."
So if it doesn't fit over my neighbor's couch or become an art fad, is it wasted? The answer is supposed to be no. But why? Is the answer no because it's healing my soul, because it gives me something to do, and provides meaning in a meaningless world? Is that enough?
Lately, I'm confused about what I should be painting, what I want to paint, why I want to paint, etc. Trying to resolve those questions is slowly driving me nuts. What I do know is that I need to paint. I don't want to stop. And if I had to stop for some reason, I'd write. They are avenues to funnel out a tiny spec of all that rages in my head. If I didn't have a way to relieve the pressure, I'd explode.
John also paints and writes, and he believes that "the continual fire to create, in whatever shape or form, draws from the same source regardless of medium."
Yes, that's it.
I'm burning; there's a fire pit in my soul that just won't die. It's sad to think that it may never actually cook up anything phenomenal. But I realize now that it doesn't matter; the fire is all that matters. It rages on.
I think John gets it ... has it ... needs it like I do.
What's your story (in a nutshell)?
Inside the nutshell, a curious child wonders alone in the busy cracked sidewalks streets always wanting to know what's around the next corner, or why he doesn’t feel cool inside and out because he questions everything, hoping his parents won't notice his rusty safety pin ear rings, his hands covered in spray paint and the poetry books he is reading.
Whispers of lovers, foreign lands filled with new cities and the genuine smile of strangers, beckoned me onward with the chance to experience new thoughts and experience new ideas regardless of the outcome.
Was the journey on a straight or twisted path?
Upon reflection there were many times when the puddle I jumped head first into was really a bottomless pit with slimy cracked walls, armed uniformed thugs, the stench of raw sewage and no toilet paper.
Crawling my way out, I lost many a battle watching the skin on my face and knuckles reveal bare bloody flesh, a locked and bolted door, or worse, a condescending pat on the back making me feel like a snail crawling along the edge of a razor blade.
Unable to look away or behind me keeps the journey constant even though there were many times when one step forward and two steps backwards was the only way to go.
I always knew from a very early age I had to create something. In Working Class England the word artist was never really in the vocabulary. Folks started calling me that long before I considered myself one. These days I accept the label and dig my heels in deeper.
How long did it take to establish yourself as an artist?
Twenty five years ago the concept of working part time and creating art was new to me. Europe was under the rule of Thatcherism and the main reason I stayed in the USA was the abundance of part time work. I didn’t have any formal art training, knew nothing of the gallery scene but was given plenty of opportunity to work with my hands. I made a point of living as frugally as possible, often in ghetto situations, a friend’s van, or abandoned buildings where I could use the money I made to create art.
Quite quickly all I was doing was making art and to my surprise folks started buying it. The day job disappeared and these days it would be impossible for my mind to conceive of doing anything else.
Are you surprised by your success?
I tend to use the word gratitude rather than surprise. Every morning I look out of my studio window at all the folks working really hard, thankless jobs and inwardly thank the Universe for my lot in life.
Success for me is being able to do my job without any consideration for what others might think, not caring if it sells or not, and enjoying a good bottle of Chianti for breakfast.
With regard to your current creative focus, was there an "ah-ha" moment you can tell us about?
The adventure is stepping off the crumbling cliff top ledge and plummeting towards the abyss, into the unknown, realizing you have no wings to fly as the inevitable rushes closer. I try to observe the descent, feeling the air fill my lungs, feeling the knots explode in my stomach as I taste the goods. If I’m lucky something comes out of this fall, something new is translated, and some kind of expression manifests. I guess I am an optimist in the sense that as I enter the creative cave I think the end result might be worthy of daylight.
It takes a lot of guts to create something new and refreshing; the “ah- ha” moment is waking up every day and slogging onward.
You have also written a novel, Hurricane Hotel. Please tell us about the book?
Hurricane Hotel is a rollicking street car ride into the underbelly of New Orleans and was started many moons ago while living in a small dive hotel on St Charles Avenue in New Orleans.
The attraction to the hotel aside from the cheap rent was the 24/7 bar and dance hall conveniently located downstairs. An assortment of outsiders, lost souls, artists, sailors, oil rig workers, poets, dancers, ravers, DJ’s and circus performers haunted both at the bar and in the rooms.
During an exceptional hot summer, a mandatory evacuation was given due to an incoming Hurricane. Several of us decided to stay at the hotel simply because we had no place else to go. The flood water came in very quickly forcing us to go upstairs, basically trapping us from the outside world for several days. Without power the intense humid heat and lack of emergency provisions started taking it’s toil on us.
Everything became really wacky when all the booze and drugs ran out. Back then there weren’t cell phones and the hotel was far from Internet savvy. We were trapped like rats on a sinking ship. It was during this intense time that I started writing the novel.
For personal reasons I had to abandon this project for almost 10 years.
Then in the summer of 2005 Hurricane Katrina hit and we all know that story.
I was on a family vacation in the NE at that destructive time and for some strange reason, I had grabbed a box containing all my poetry and the Hurricane Hotel manuscript before leaving the city. My New Orleans home and studio sat in nine feet of floodwater for six weeks and during that time, living in a friend’s apartment in NYC, I started reworking the novel. By Thanksgiving of the same year I felt it was finished and showed a tattered manuscript to my cousin, author Andre Dubus III. He read the novel, told me it was brilliant, and proceeded to write the foreword. During this time, I made 12 hand made copies of the book and gave them to friends as gifts. Their critical response convinced me I had something worth publishing.
The rest is history and for some a good read.
What do you see as the similarities and differences between writing and painting?
Expression means translating a feeling, a fleeting moment, a response to something personal and accepting the end result is simply a snow flake landing in a puddle of tepid lake water.
I believe the continual fire to create, in whatever shape or form, draws from the same source regardless of medium.
What does each bring to you as a creative individual?
Continual room for improvement.
Do you believe some of the various attributes related to being highly creative have caused you aberrations in life, helped you deal with life's aberrations (issues), or both?
The creative cave is the looniest, loneliest place in the world. Ultimately it’s the scariest and safest place as well. For the few who can let go of society’s demands and dogmas, and really dig deep enough into the self, eventually a primal place is found. This place can be described as a fountain if you like of unlimited resources where everything is possible and nothing else really matters.
For many years I wrestled with some formidable demons, being a passenger in a strange land and the jaws of poverty kept the monkey on the back, so to speak. I am lucky. Somehow my art, a small group of loyal friends, and the kind folks at Charity Hospital in New Orleans kept me alive, kept me coming back for more. It would be fair to say I wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for my art and a few folks believing in it.
Have you ever had to deal with people in your life failing to understand your creative personality, interests, or drive? If so, can you tell us about it and how you've dealt with it?
From the very beginning no one understood why I had to make art, why I had to scribble on bathroom walls, deface posted signs, or kick down the barbed wire fence. It’s a very selfish pursuit. It takes guts and sometimes stupidity, you have to have an ego strong enough to accept the creative force is not always a pretty smiling greetings card, and what you are making might not fit over the proverbial couch or match the newest art fad . My friend Bob Hogge, says it best, “If you’re not excited or driven by what you make, why expect anybody else to be interested.”
I think these are very exciting times to be a visual artist. The electronic world has numbed the raw sense of immediacy. Film and television has opened the doors for artists to express their ideas to hundreds of thousands of people, but neither of these mediums can replace the visceral place a painting or sculpture holds.
Alone you have to go into the studio and do battle and in that struggle there is no room for caring what other people think, if you pause you lose. Period. Sure it feels good if some folks dig the end result, but I avoid trying to make art that competes against other art. If my work has any truth to it at all, if what I am saying actually can stand on its own two legs something positive will manifest.
It took me a long time to master the trick of not taking negativity personally. It comes with the ride so get used to it. Everybody is driving their own car and has a right to their own opinion whether I agree with them or not.
Have you developed a specific creative process that enables you to meet your creative goals? If so, can you tell us about it.
Discipline can be achieved through daily routine.
Every day I work on something.
Where do most of your ideas come from?
Good question.
Perhaps in the way an opened can of half eaten sardines, imported from Thailand, drowned in red wine, resembles the nape of a lost lover’s neck.
What do you believe places an artist apart from his or her peers?
The inability to sit still and do nothing.
So many are highly talented, but what makes one stand out as truly gifted?
Luck, continually working it and helping folks less fortunate than ourselves.
Do you plan to write more or will your main focus continue to be art?
The 1000 or so coffee stained poems, sitting in a cardboard box, beside me now, salvaged from natural and unnatural disasters, ex’s ex-husbands, and sometimes their wives, mice, and the neighbor’s cat, continue to grow legs and constantly scurry across the floor, walls and ceiling of my rented womb resembling sniveling pesky cockroaches.
No matter how many times I’ve doused them in tequila and lighter fluid, plucked their wings, singed their tails with hot cigarettes, trapped them into remote dusty corners or flushed them down the sink, Providence demands that they fly.
Hurricane Hotel, for all its flaws, can be described as a deranged epic poem.
The fact that Hurricane Hotel continues to be read and is rapidly becoming a best seller is beginning to fuel the notion the contents of my cardboard box is worthy of publishing.
It has been suggested on many an occasion I should incorporate my poetry into my paintings and this may be the next logical step.
What is your primary motto or mantra in life?
Gratitude.
Why is this important to you?
It combats greed and beats stealing from the poor.
"Without poets, without artists, men would soon weary of nature's monotony. The sublime idea men have of the universe would collapse with dizzying speed. The order which we find in nature, and which is only an effect of art, would at once vanish. Everything would break up in chaos. There would be no seasons, no civilization, no thought, no humanity; even life would give way, and the impotent void would reign everywhere." - Guillame Apolinaire
“It is possible to climb life’s mountain from any side, but when the top is reached the trails converge.”
- Huston Smith
Sunday
Pray no more for utter oneness with God;
Where is the beauty if jewel and setting were one?
The heat and the shade are two,
If not, where is the comfort of shade?
Mother and child are two,
If not, where is the love?
When after being sundered, they meet,
What joy do they feel, the mother and child!
Where is joy, if the two were one?
Pray, then, no more for utter oneness with God.
- Hindu Devotional Classic
I’m surprised to find the path leading to my highly anticipated afterlife covered in dust. According to all the well-meaning folks back in Texas, it should be a bright tunnel pulling me along with some kind of sappy warmth I missed in life. Instead it’s nothing special—perhaps like my life. The dust isn’t shimmery or luminous. It flutters around my bare feet as I inch forward wondering if I’m being sent to hell. I consider all the times my hippy-turned-fundamentalist-wife tried to shove her religious beliefs down my throat and question whether I should have listened. But rather than the bright, glowing place Jane described in excruciating detail, the path is dusky, dull and ordinary. Considering all the hype, it’s disappointing.
I wasn’t such a bad guy. My goal was to shoot straight and live an uncomplicated life. Perhaps I was a bit subdued at certain junctures, but at least I wasn’t a drama queen; that was Jane’s role. I may have been a southern, white guy but I had the kind of balls you find in the Philly hood. They were there when I needed them, tucked inside my Wranglers and all the other crap I chose to hide behind.
Despite my confidence to self-identify as brave, tough, or sure, I wonder if I should bolt. Then I realize there’s only one direction; that running won’t make a hill of beans difference. Besides, I’m off-kilter. My body hangs light and empty around me as if the only solid piece left is that deep kernel I’ve always avoided. I can’t remember how old I am. Although I continue to grapple with it, the concept of age eventually evaporates into the dismal space I lumber through. As I move forward, the issues of body and age leave the mind I no longer have.
People often joke about death, saying, “Go to the light,” yet there’s no such beacon after all. There’s only my ability to see the vague path ahead. It’s confusing and I ache for that brand of peace that passes all understanding? Why am I here without it? Did it pass me over? I can’t recall what happened or how I got here. The darkness isn’t frightening but it’s lonely. I hope for light that offers more than simple illumination.
To quote my favorite writer, Charles Dickens, I’m “dead as a doornail,” spinning in a storm of peace. Truth be told, I haven’t thought of Dickens in awhile but he was my favorite back when I was young and filled with wild, romantic dreams of making the world a better place, sleeping with as many women as I could (I loved every one I met), and maybe someday becoming a real man with a real life. I studied literature and couldn’t wait to be an educator. Determined to mold young hearts, I imagined I’d become the leader I lost when my father was killed.
Some would have described me as a perfect specimen (at least on the outside)—handsome, tall and bright with thick, wavy hair and robust, strong arms to wrap around one lucky girl waiting for someone to whisk her off into the post-war dream of life we all envisioned with JFK at the helm. Even after his death, I saw him at the lead, bizarrely merged with my father. I felt him pulling me along through needless war (which I missed due to my kidney issues), cultural rebellion, and then some semblance of peace. I was determined to change the world, but instead I got a job and had a kid.
I’d almost forgotten all the outward promise that masked my internal imperfections so well. I wonder if death makes you forget or helps you remember.
Through all this wondering, I continue moving forward, feeling slightly tugged, like a puppy on a chain—free to roam within limits. Allowed to explore but only on the path chosen by the giant guy yanking the chain.
As I reach the end of my confusing, dusty path, I hear a voice. It says, “There you are, Jim Howard.” It startles me yet it’s familiar. It makes that gnawing kernel at my core realize I died with smaller balls than I was born with. Now I’m the pup who has stepped into the path of a huge dog. I’m not sure what to do, where to go, which way to turn. Frozen, I gape at the nondescript face staring at me, wondering where my balls—and all that promise—went and when I lost them.
“Sit,” the voice says, “for I am God.”
Then I finally see light. As it splashes through the space around me, I draw in a breath—expecting transformation. Surely this is the moment I turn into an angel, or suddenly understand life and death and everything in between. Music will ring out at any moment; the big brass band is on its way! I will be magically renewed to my original splendor and the celebration will begin.
I wait but nothing happens.
God just stares at me.
So I sit as if frozen in the expanding abyss cracking open around me.
Other than that, the end of the path turns out to be surprisingly simple: God and me sitting together in a wide open space that seems to house nothing and everything. It all rolls together in a way I could never have imagined. I reel over the fact that I’m in the presence of God. I wait for Him to speak again. Being dead doesn’t feel like it’s supposed to, yet it feels right. It’s all a bit shocking yet comforting. I’m not sure if there is a word to describe it other than weird. I look around but find nothing to look at. Yet the nothing I see fascinates me like the surreal drug-induced peace I experienced in the 70’s. I wish I’d known Jane then, when she was full of free love, pot, and possibilities.
I miss my wife—no matter how hell-bent she was on converting us all.
“Of course it’s a shock,” God suddenly says, looking a bit like George Carlin one moment and George Clooney the next. I realize he’s adjusting to my preference. He eventually settles on Clooney; I’ve always been a fan.
Finally His body, which was breathtakingly still while His face oscillated and morphed, seems to crack loose. He walks around like a normal guy but His legs slice the nothingness with finality and purpose I’ve not seen in all my years of watching men, trying to remember my father’s stride. I never told anyone about watching men like that; I knew it was odd but I couldn’t stop. Unlike my father, as God moves, the void reconnects behind Him with a bit of a cool shimmer. Jane said that in heaven all gaps are filled. She also said, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” But I’m still left with the aching hole my father gave me. I know because it’s a big part of that kernel I keep trying to ignore.
In addition to the man-watching secret, I kept most of my drug-day stories to myself. Once upon a time, I believed dope took me straight to heaven. It pried open my mind and set me free. I wonder now how I got so cooped up again. It probably happened at the same time and place I lost my balls. But I know now that they collapsed gradually, so slow that the dull associated pain was easier to take. I must have been in that nerve losing, soul squelching place for much too long. I look at God and wonder how I failed.
He sits like a statue, as if listening to my thoughts. Jane always said, “God’s listening and waiting for you, Jim.” That drove me nuts, but now I wonder how long He’s been here waiting for me to complete my prolonged, painful thought process, to figure life out, and stop being a pussy. He finally smiles and says, “I’ve looked like Clooney a lot lately. George has a face filled with emotions every man craves, whether he realizes it or not.”
I shake my head in agreement, thinking it’s due to Clooney’s keen ability to look at once fatherly, boyish, and viral. I get it.
God shifts in his invisible seat.
His graceful movements remind me of the Dallas Metropolitan Ballet. I wonder why He would ever need to change in any way. If He’s perfect, why would He need to adjust? Gazing into His luminous face, I realize my heart isn’t racing the way it normally would in such situations. (Not that I’ve ever been in such a strange predicament, of course.) “Why am I here?” I ask, wondering if it’s a stupid question. I scratch my leg, not because it itches but because I need to touch something solid. I long for the colors of my life.
Suddenly I see them, flitting above me, fighting to emerge into the curious atmosphere that presses and lifts me all at once. Numerous cosmic contradictions, so many forces, backward and forward, over and under, play around me: light and dark, movement and stillness, meaning and emptiness. Yet I’m steady. I’m going nowhere yet I’m everywhere.
“Your life came to an end,” God says, his demeanor and voice adjusting to that of a typical Clooney character. I assume that’s what all the shifting was about. I’m star struck until I remind myself that seeing God is a much bigger deal than seeing George Clooney. “You think it sucks now but it’s not so bad,” He says. “You’ll see.”
His message doesn’t seem to sink in the way it should. Although everything I see and feel is beautiful beyond expression, hearing these words disturb me; I don’t want to be dead. I’m reminded of times in life when I’ve been utterly confused yet it’s not confusing. I’m aching with peace.
He says, “It happens to everyone sooner or later.”
I stand and pace, looking into the dichotomous movement and stillness surrounding me, searching for someone else: my dead relatives, my ancestors, my first wife (the one my mother and the ghost of JFK wanted me to marry). I notice that the atmosphere doesn’t splinter open for me. Instead it moves aside like fog cutting around a car on a long, lonely road. I feel something like blood pressure rising as I recall such a drive and Phil Collins’ eerie voice singing, “I can feel it in the air tonight, oh Lord. I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life,” yet there is no blood to rise. I wonder what fills me now. I can’t recall that long ago drive, the details. Why was I there and who was with me? Where were we headed? My memories are jumbled into a disturbing, swirling ball that was my life. I desperately need a frame of reference to pull them back into myself (whatever that is now) and sort them out again.
“Where is everyone?” I ask. “If I’m dead, isn’t this when I’m supposed to be reunited with my loved ones?”
God looks sad, and I think maybe Jane was right about how we continually break his heart. “Jane isn’t always right, and yes, we do listen to Collins here,” He says. “Now sit.” It’s a request rather than a command, delivered with arms extended in a welcoming gesture.
So I sit again, wondering what I’m sitting on. I look down and around but don’t see anything beneath me. I only feel. The space around me swirls yet nothing moves. I feel it all happening. I am both numb and exhilarated. I’m being told that I’m dead, festering in a deep grave beneath the tears of my family yet I’m in a fantastical place beyond their imagination.
Well, perhaps Jane could imagine it. She’s spent the majority her life visualizing her special place in heaven. Yet she’s got elements, major pieces, all wrong; I see that already. Over the years, she became so entrenched in her beliefs that I often wondered where she had gone. I wonder where she is now and what she’s doing. Many of the ideas and concepts she built her adult life around (and so artfully spliced into her personality), crash over me, falling at my feet like dust. Something inside me breaks for her; my heart is gone but it seems to be replaced by something just as full and heavy. I wish I could warn her.
“Everybody wonders what actually happens when the final curtain falls,” God says. “I know that Jane has. I know you have as well. I know what you were thinking at noon on February 6, 1956, and at midnight on July 6, 1986.”
“So you know everything. I get that. But what happens now? How did I die? Why can’t I remember?” I wrap my arms around myself. I’m not cold but I shiver as if I’m becoming part of the bizarre rippling mesh around me. I ache to hold myself together, to hang onto Jim Howard a little longer.
“Do you remember your life?” As these words emerge from God’s Clooney face, images of my life appear. They surround us like the movie about China I saw last year at Epcot. God somehow downloaded that intense ball of missing memories and is replaying it across the horizon. As if submerged in water, my head jerks gracefully from side to side following the mesh-supported images that slowly feed my memory back.
I stand and turn in slow circles taking in the whole of my life. It’s at once painful and beautiful. I want to cry but tears don’t come. I feel myself breaking down but don’t know if it’s emotional or physical. I wonder if the physical still exists. I touch my face and feel the wrinkles I picked up in life. I realize they’re fading. I should be happy, but instead I sense that I’m losing something important. I wish they’d stay, at least for awhile.
“I need to leave you here for a bit,” God says. “I’ll be back.” As He disappears, I realize I’m also seeing what’s happening now.
It's been a busy month! In September, I completed seven new paintings, and kicked off a long term project, A Girl Called Empty. I was able to get to NYC twice to see the Monkdogz Urban Art Exhibition, "NowHere @ 150." It was an incredible show! I met lots of new folks, saw a few of my wonderful artist friends, and also spent time visiting with Monkdogz owners, Bob Hogge and Marina Hadley.
At the Monkdogz show, I finally met artist Joyce Dibona (in the flesh). I went right ahead and tried on her amazing 5-inch heels (which made me 6' 2" for about ten minutes), spent time chatting with artist, Neil Leinwohl, and learned about Bob's crystal ball on the wall. I met artist John K. Lawson, who will be visiting Aberration Nation soon, and had my first experience being literally squashed like a sardine by the NYC subway system. Thank goodness long-time New Yorkers, Bob and Marina were there to make sure I followed the unwritten subway rules. (Folks from Louisiana are not naturally suited to such habitats.)
To top it off, I also spent nearly a week working in London, (always enjoyable); helped kick off my youngest daughter's junior high career; and came to the well thought out decision to change my hairstyle (always stressful).
Seeing all the wonderful art created by my artist friends inspired me!
Here's the art I created in September:
Note: All of the following work was created with acrylic and pastel on canvas.
Crawling Out
13" x 15"
Bench Test
20" x 30"
Beautiful Bleeder
20" x 25"
One Eye Open
~15" x 20"
A Girl Called Empty, Page 1
This is a detail shot of a 25" x 25" piece
that is part of my new Girl Called Empty project.
Biting the Hand that Feeds Me
20" x 20"
A Girl Called Empty, Page 2
This is a detail shot of a 25" x 25" piece
that is part of my new Girl Called Empty project.
Speaking of inspiring Monkdogz' artists, the film based on the life and art of Jean Marc Calvet premieres in NYC on November 5th! If you're in the area, be sure to get tickets for the film CALVET. Jean Marc Calvet happens to be the King of Aberration Nation. His story and work is incredibly inspiring; he's one of my heroes!
A Girl Called Empty, Page 1
Once upon a time in the deep tangled woods of Despair,
a clean slate of a child was born to a silent father and a
sorrowful mother with good intentions and phenomenal beauty.
A Girl Called Empty is a modern day fairytale written by author and artist, Penelope Przekop. Penelope recently began a year-long project to illustrate (acrylic & pastel on canvas) the dark tale fueled by resilience and hope. Via dual avenues of communication, the work will illuminate the plight of children raised by a mentally ill parent, and how it impacts their ongoing development as well as their adult lives.
A Girl Called Empty is also a story that depicts the healing power of art. Before we can speak or write, we recognize colors, and have the ability to form shapes and lines that express our inner selves, and how we uniquely experience our environment.
Art can provide a direct link to our most basic level of identity.
“I found I could say things with colors that I couldn’t say in any other way – things that I had no words for.”
– Georgia O’Keefe
To help bring increased awareness to the emotional and social impact of being raised by a mentally troubled parent, Penelope will paint ~ 35 original works of art that visually support and add dimension to the story of A Girl Called Empty. She will explore how best to use the work to accomplish this higher goal as the project progresses.
Penelope is excited about tackling a project that combines both her love of writing and painting. She aims to use her personal experience and talent to not only express herself, but to also create something remarkable that will benefit others. Per Penelope, "At times, I feel incredibly self-centered focusing on my own issues. I don't want to keep spitting them out in books or on canvas just so I can stare at them, or ask people to look at them, and understand or validate me. I want to use them to do something positive for the world around me; that's the real purpose to be found in my creativity."
Fingerprints are visual, biological proof that each person has a unique identity. Penelope's goal is to work with individuals (children, teens, and adults) either currently being raised, or who were raised, by a mentally ill parent who will provide fingerprints to be incorporated into the art work, and/or resulting book.
Imbedding these individuals' unique prints into the art/book will drive home their inherent struggle to establish a solid sense of identity beyond the troubled parent. It will also support the importance of recognizing that children of the mentally ill are often lost in the shadows of the constant stress and confusion swirling around them as they develop emotionally and seek to understand their world.
About Penelope:
Penelope Przekop is a published author and a professional artist represented by Monkdogz Urban Art (New York City). Her art has been shown in New York City, California, Philadelphia, and Europe. Her art work has been acquired by the Caserta (Italy) Museum of Art. She has written four novels and one business book published by McGraw-Hill. Penelope has a B.S. degree in Biology from Louisiana State University and an M.S. degree in Quality Systems / Assurance from the Southern Polytechnic State University Department of Engineering. She is a former Director of Global Quality Management at Johnson & Johnson, and is currently Senior Director, Global Quality Assurance & Training for Theradex Systems, Inc. She lives near Philadelphia with her husband and two daughters.
Penelope's mother has struggled with severe depression, borderline personality disorder, and other emotional issues throughout her life. She has been hospitalized multiple times for mental illness and has been reliant on medication for over forty years. When Penelope was a child and teenager, not one adult stopped to consider that she may need support despite the sunny smile she consistently tossed around; she was lost in the shadow of her suffering mother. At ten years old, Penelope created a motto for herself: "Alone, at least I have myself." She attempted suicide at 19 by overdosing on her mother’s medication, and spent three days in an intensive care unit. At 25, she began writing her first novel, Boundaries, which is based on her own struggle to understand and accept her individuality and self-worth as a child and teenager.
You can watch this project progress on Facebook and Penelope's art site. If you're not yet Penelope's friend on Facebook, please feel free to send her a request.
" ... I cure most of the unavoidable bummers in life with creativity."
It's interesting how connections are made. A few months ago, my husband and I went to the Sands Casino in Bethlehem, PA. While my husband was playing craps, I wandered off to the Fusion Lounge. (I chose it because it was orange.) As I sat at the bar, sipping my martini (also orange), I noticed that the bartender and another nearby customer were chatting about their weekend plans. It turned out that the customer was the father of the young bartender.
By the time I was downing my second martini, we were all chatting.
I soon learned that the young bartender is an artist named Justin Klement. He told me about his work, and handed me a CD for which he designed the artwork. The CD is packed with fantastic original music by his good friend, Tim Harakal.
According to Tim's site, his self-taught hands are at one with the guitar strings; they have become an extension of his heart, soul, and spirit. Influenced by his favorite band, Metallica, his music has morphed into an acoustic art form with a pop-rock edge.
I liked Tim's music so much that I just had to have him on Aberration Nation. (I also hope to have his talented buddy, Justin, on soon.)
Tim tells us below that his most recent 'ah-ha' moment was turning 25 this summer, and realizing he'd better get cooking. From what I've seen, he's hot already. I told him to imagine turning 45. That's more of an 'oh-crap' moment. Twenty-five seems awfully young, but I understand Tim's sense of urgency, and suspect it will follow him throughout his career. It's a critical piece needed for success in any creative field.
I felt the same way when I was 25, and still do. At that age, I had a three-year-old daughter and one degree. I had just married and relocated from Louisiana to Northern New Jersey. I was happy about all that but was terribly homesick. That's the year I began writing my first novel. I was sure I'd already wasted quite a few years, gotten the wrong degree, etc. I had to get moving!
Every creative has a unique journey that (hopefully) continues until we expel our last beautiful breath. Mine has been a bit twisted and convoluted, similar to the diagram below. I suspect that after twenty years I'm still somewhere in the middle of that tangled mess, but I'm definitely light years ahead of where I started.
There are certainly numerous ways to measure success. For me, the beauty of being creative is that, as Tim points out, it can cure the unavoidable bummers in life. We can overcome all those unexpected dips and detours, and crappy things that jump out at us simply by recognizing that it's all part of the sometimes gut wrenching truth that defines being human. And we can funnel that brutal honesty into our work to create phenomenal, lasting art.
So here I sit at 45 writing a blog article about a hot, young 25 year old musician. Am I supposed to hang my slightly wrinkled head, wring my vein-popping hands, and feel elderly. No, because my journey continues, and it's one of value. I spent years writing novels, then began to paint in 2008, and subsequently spent the last year and a half focusing on my art. Within the last two weeks I've come full circle to hit upon a creative idea that combines my love of writing with art. It feels like a new beginning.
I feel 25 again. (And today at work someone told me they thought I was 35. That was icing on the cake!)
I believe my life has a creative purpose. I don't care if it takes 25 more years, I will continue to move forward even if I have to go in a few convoluted circles to do so. I have high hopes that Tim will have a fairly straight path to the top, but come what may, I hope he'll always remember the diagram above. I hope he will never forsake his wiring, and that he will keep moving despite all obstacles. During those detours and snags, we have to remind ourselves of the power our creative spirit's offer.
We hold a genuine cure in the palm of our hands that many people lack. That's why creativity is called a gift.
What's your story (in a nutshell)? Have you always loved music?
Music has always been a part of my life. My parents listened to folk music and my dad played guitar, so I was exposed at a young age to a lyrically driven guitar based genre. Then, somewhere in the natural progression of things I developed an unnatural attraction to heavy metal that lead to the whole “I need to be a rock star” thing. I picked up the guitar at 16 and aside from some basics my father offered, I taught myself to play.
The singing didn’t happen until my senior year in high school. Who would have thought a metal head would have sang “I Wanna Be There” by Blessid Union of Souls for the talent show? I will never forget being half way through the song, mustering up the courage to open my eyes and seeing an auditorium lit with open cell phones (lighters were prohibited). Hook, line, and sinker ... look at me now.
With regard to your current creative focus, was there an "ah-ha" moment you can tell us about?
Yes…on August 1st I turned 25 and realized that I have to get things moving.
For you, is music more about creation or expression? It could be both, but does one dominate with regard to your need/urge/desire to be a singer/songwriter?
To me music is more about expression. How you perform the piece is what gives music life and allows it to do work. So, as a singer/songwriter, I feel most accomplished when I perform my music.
How would you describe your musical style, and why does this appeal most to you creatively?
I think my music has many personalities and therefore many styles. The songs are all so different. I have jazzy songs, funky songs, folk songs, pop songs, and I even have a song that is hip-hop inspired. So, I’m not sure how to describe the style … acoustic American maybe. Music as a creative outlet works for me because I’m a quiet guy who doesn’t read too much. So I’m not all that great at writing or spelling. Music allows me to communicate and not have to worry about grammatical or spelling errors.
Do you believe some of the various attributes related to being highly creative have caused you aberrations in life, helped you deal with life's aberrations, or both?
The attributes have affected me in both ways. I often find myself sacrificing for the creative process. On the flip side, I cure most of the unavoidable bummers in life with creativity. In the end, it’s all positive. Being creative is a good thing.
Have you had to deal with people in your life failing to understand your creative personality, interests, or drive? If so, can you tell us about it and how you've dealt with it?
My creativity is misunderstood all the time. Sometimes I don’t understand my own creativity, but who really wants to understand everything? For example, magic would suck if we understood it. I guess what I’m saying is I accept and appreciate being misunderstood.
Unfortunately, many creative people never achieve the success they dream about. You're just getting started. Have any of your dreams come to pass yet? What do you dream of achieving now?
My dream is that music will allow me to live a comfortable life. I’m not quite there yet, but I know it's coming.
Do you ever wonder if what you're creating or expressing is as meaningful to others as it is to you? How important is that to you with regard to your overall goals? If you've created something that purely expresses who you are, is that enough, or is the circle only completed when someone else says, "Yes, she understands me" or "Yes, that's how I feel"?
Writing and performance is just a way of expressing myself. I don’t give too much thought as to how it affects other people…although I do try to keep the songs positive…and applause is kind of nice.
Is there a difference between being creative and being talented? What are your thoughts on this?
I think you are born with the capacity to be creative and you can learn to be talented.
What is your primary motto or mantra in life? Why is this important to you?
"I don't have any powers others don't have; I just have a different job."
Yesterday afternoon, I rode the train into Manhattan to spend a few hours at Monkdogz Urban Art, the gallery that represents my art. In my arms I carried a roll of my recent paintings, all on unstretched canvas secured by two large rubber bands. The plan was to share some of my new work with gallery owners, Bob Hogge and Marina Hadley.
The good news is: they liked it; they handed me a drink, gave me a cookie, and didn't fire me.
The bad news is: I left New York with a profound empty twist in my gut. It was wrapped around the gnawing truth that, in the end, no one can provide validation. Sprinkled on top was the disgusting realization that I've known this for years, yet I can't shake my addictive pursuit. External approval of all the creative things I work so hard to achieve will never fill the holes punched in my psyche. I realized that if the overwhelming need to paint has become my main source of therapy, then I must paint a deeper truth. My friend, artist, Jean Marc Calvet wrote to me about this today. He said, "Go inside the hole (don't be afraid) and you will find what you lost," and I know he's right. Otherwise it all becomes a meaningless, time filling duty, a job no one wants.
In looking at the work with Bob and Marina, I was jittery and uncomfortable. I'd brought a few pieces that hold less meaning for me, and as we gazed at them, they wilted and grew lifeless. On the other hand, the ones that have profound significance left me feeling exposed, as if we were all staring at my naked body in the worst sort of light. Those were the monstrous ones, and as I looked at them, I saw myself, a living, breathing freak, simultaneously full and empty. But I knew there was much more where that came from; it wasn't enough.
If I can't put myself fully on the canvas than there's no point for me in art. Finding a way into the hole is why I'm driven to paint. I need to take a deep breath and get on with it. I'm not sure why yet or who gave it to me, but that's my real job, my life's work.
With that in mind, I went home, spread my fingers through the paint, and literally felt my way into the start of a new painting. It's messy, juvenile, and ugly but it looks like what I am, and I'm determined to push forward in that direction.
My guest today, Penn Jillette, of the famed Penn & Teller, says he has no creative powers that others lack; he just has a different job. Speaking of powers, Penn has written a book that seems to effortlessly punch holes in religion. He escorts us into that space many refuse to acknowledge or explore. My mother would likely burn this book based on the title alone: God, No!: Signs You May Already Be an Atheist and Other Magical Tales. In the book, Penn takes readers on a roller coaster of exploration and flips conventional religious wisdom on its ear to reveal that doubt, skepticism, and wonder -- all signs of a general feeling of disbelief -- are to be celebrated and cherished, rather than suppressed.
I have no magic either nor do I fully understand where creative ability or drive comes from, who gives it to us, or how we can be rid of it once blossomed. I'd love to believe that God gifted me with the same special packet Picasso, Pollock, and Kandinsky received on their way to Earth. Maybe he did and maybe he didn't.
The point is: we're all made of the same basic biological building blocks. Those complex blocks usually get dragged through some level and form of crap as we make our way. As the dark, stinking mess we're struck with races up our noses, splashes into our eyes, and seeps between our teeth, we reach into our packet and yank out whatever seems as if it can save us. Even if I did get Picasso's packet, a million other people may also be toting around the same bag of tricks.
Who's fully utilizing it and what does it all mean? Whose job is it to find out? I'd love to sit down to dinner with Penn and discuss this at some point.
Maybe someday it will happen. After all, I do believe in magic. I'm a freak.
What's your story? How did you end up in the comedy / entertainment field, and are you surprised by your success? I'm from Greenfield, a small factory town in Western Massachusetts. I learned to juggle when I was 12 and got good. I met Teller while I was still in high school and "got out" (not really graduated) of high school on a plea bargain. I wanted to be a great existential writer and live in Paris, but I went to Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Clown College instead. I hitchhiked around the country and hopped trains, did a lot of street performing, and put a show together with Teller. I gave up on Paris but not on being an existential writer. I'm more successful than I ever dreamed I could be. The first person I met in showbiz was me. I didn't know this was possible for anyone, never mind me.
You've have an interesting, successful career that seems to be going well. What made you decide to write a God, No!: Signs You May Already Be an Atheist and Other Magical Tales?
Glenn Beck challenged me to write about atheist morality. I got carried away.
With regard to the book, was there an "ah-ha" moment you can tell us about?
Yeah, when I realized that proselytizing really was very good thing - the backbone of the marketplace of ideas.
Each novel I write seems to change my life or create a shift in my thinking or perception in some way. Did writing the book change or impact your life in any way that perhaps goes beyond other creative work that you do?
Yes, I've talked to a lot of religious people because of this book and the more I talk with them, the more I like them. I respect and love people, even when I don't like their ideas.
In general, how does creativity factor into comedy writing? Where do you get most of your ideas? I rarely write jokes. I never wanted to be in comedy. It just seems when I tell the truth, I like to tell it funny. But, I don't ever like to do any joke that isn't true to me.
Do you believe some of the various attributes related to being creative have caused you aberrations (issues) in life, helped you deal with life's aberrations, or both? How so?
I don't think "creativity" is anything "magic" or even special. I think we're all just doing our best. I don't have any powers others don't have; I just have a different job.
Have you ever had to deal with people in your life failing to understand some of the personality traits, interests, or drive that go along with being creative? If so, can you tell us about it and how you've dealt with it?
It's kind of the same answer. The people who don't understand when I get jacked up and rant and pull focus . . . are right -- that's just a lack of self control on my part. It's sometimes hard for my family to understand that I need to sit and think to do my job. But, that's hard for me to understand, too. It might be a lazy lie.
Have you developed a specific process that enables you to meet your professional goals? If so, can you tell us about it, and also share any thoughts you may have on the role of discipline and organization?
I do the opposite of procrastination, to a fault. I leave my "in box" empty. I do everything when I'm asked to do it. As soon as I can. This request came in and I wrote it. I didn't wait until I had time to do it. I try to be early on everything. I fail now and again, but I try to just do it.
"You've got to do it, till your through it, so you better get to it" - Elvis Costello.
Were there specific challenges to writing the book that you can share with us?
See above, all of my challenges are time. I have so much more that I want to do than I can do. I don't ever get to sit down and write a book. All of my books have been written in stolen moments. When I have 15 minutes -- I write. I can't warm up and put it off. It's all done in the spaces, and I love it that way, but I sometimes think of what it would be like to have a 10 hour writing day. It seems great, but maybe I couldn't work that way.
Will there be more Penn Jillette books?
Yes, whether published or not, I'm always writing. I love it. My sister always said that she saw me first as a writer, and she knew me better than I know myself.
Has writing Blueprints for Building Better Girls changed you and your ideas about being a woman in any way? 
I find it much easier to see what I perceive the weaknesses in someone else’s work versus my own. I am very lucky to have a few trusted readers who help me out in this regard.
It's been a busy month! In September, I completed seven new paintings, and kicked off a long term project, A Girl Called Empty. I was able to get to NYC twice to see the Monkdogz Urban Art Exhibition, "NowHere @ 150." It was an incredible show! I met lots of new folks, saw a few of my wonderful artist friends, and also spent time visiting with Monkdogz owners, Bob Hogge and Marina Hadley. 
Fingerprints are visual, biological proof that each person has a unique identity. Penelope's goal is to work with individuals (children, teens, and adults) either currently being raised, or who were raised, by a mentally ill parent who will provide fingerprints to be incorporated into the art work, and/or resulting book. 
Writing and performance is just a way of expressing myself. I don’t give too much thought as to how it affects other people…although I do try to keep the songs positive…and applause is kind of nice.
