A Short Story

A short story about needing art

I was born into an unmown garden, protected from strange views, being the eldest daughter of young parents. Soon it drew me to the surrounding woods that became my hideout for games like “talking to yourself”. As it is hard to tell the line between “self”, surroundings and “me” I grew up having lively conversations and I found out soon that I needed some strong projection screen to stay sane or at least sane enough. I guess that was just about the same motivation everybody, who decides to deal with art, has in the first place.

Art seems similar to sexual love. It can lift you up or confuse you, it´s a field of desire, lies and vanity, disappointment and redemption. One even conceives and gives birth in pain and joy. Some people really don´t need art at all, but they are rare and I really don´t know whether to envy or pity them.

My first love came as a dark and eloquent gentleman from about the 19th century called Literature. He used to steal me away at night and took me to places I never thought of to do things to me I would never tell anybody. His mighty and slightly sadistic education extended my consciousness and I admit finding it hard later to get to places, where he hasn´t already been before, waiting for me with a superior grin in his face. Still I´ll be addicted to him and wouldn´t miss him in my life – luckily I don’t have to – due to his natural good manners.

Second love or let´s call it an affair or” L´Amour a Vingt Ans” turned out to be a bitch. But there is something about bitches (and their male equivalents) that makes you love them even more because they are ruthless, because they are egoistic in bed and use you like a scratching post. She came to me at that time in life when a teenage feels very vulnerabl, plain and misunderstood. She looked fancy though she wasn´t pretty (somehow her face didn´t match her body), she offered me her hand and dragged me up the stage. “Here you can be anybody you like and do everything you don´t dare to do in the real life”, she said, “let´s be actresses!” Later she fell asleep with her head on my breast and I was lost in affection for her. But on the long run I couldn´t keep up with her moods, she was way too fast for me in everything and I ended up feeling like a donkey being dragged around until it couldn´t help but to refuse any further move. So I quit that hate-love – frankly speaking quite offended – although she always kept the third part of me.

As for Music, she´s a nice love for me – neptunic, nearly platonic – but nevertheless a constant source of joy, hardly without pain. I got to know her quite late in my life through friends introducing their friends to me like Bob Dylan, Franz Schubert or Mikis Theodorakis to name three out of hundreds that mean something to me now. I often sing along with them, although I was told my singing sounds like Mick Jagger missing the guiding accompaniment of a Keith Richards.

Painting proposed to me all my life and often I tended to tread on this tender plant, because it was patient and strong like real love usually is. After all my art lovers took me to sparkling heavens as well as to the border of madness and beyond I fell in love with this half-forgotten and over and underestimated art of painting pictures. So I got finally married to it in every sense of the word.

So let me paint the pictures meant to be painted and write the poems that want to be written. If you can use any of these in your art affairs – I´m happy to be part of the mystery.

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