Songwriter Paul Simon describes the creative experience as tapping into a mysterious underground river. To poet Ruth Stone, it’s a thunderous train of air, barreling at her over the landscape. Director Werner Herzog compares it to a burglar, climbing through the window and making a racket in the kitchen. To me, the experience of a creative revelation is decidedly more subtle. An idea, vision, melody—even a joke—floats humbly down like an autumn leaf. I’m not sure of it’s worth until I set it aside and come back to it later. 

 

What am I to do with such a visitor? Is it really  worth pursuing? Will I and/or the world be richer for having done so? I can only rely on my intuition; when it leans “yes,” I get to work. I believe that an artist can never fully articulate how and why they do what they do, and this isn’t a bad thing. To describe one’s own work too precisely is to fetter it; Art is that which can’t be described by any other means. In broad strokes, my art is a means of wrestling with existential anxiety and capturing ecstasy. It’s often dark, but just as often beautiful. My mission is to explore these poles and produce something that encapsulates both.

 

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