Art, bloggity blog, writing

Thoughts on how abstract art can help you

I was talking to one of my friends this morning about how to get back into the swing of things. She asked me how I got my groove back after I escaped Rock Bottom.

And it took a while, but, in the end what has helped me is blogging and abstract art.

Quite often when we create art we put so much focus on things and it is that focus which we lack when we become blocked.

Blocked = no focus.

No focus = no art/no words.

No art/no words =sad artist.

Well, actually, sadder artist because normally we become blocked because we are sad (or sick or anxious or tired etc)

Abstract art allows you a kind of freedom to be creative without actually having to create something specific. Especially with art forms like acrylic pouring, drip painting, drawing fractals, ink blots and other such “chaos” art.

I call it “chaos” art because it is less about talent and more about luck and outside influence. I’m not saying that it doesn’t take talent or that those who use these forms are talentless, it is simply not as reliant on talent as trying to do sketch wirh charcoal or do an oil painting of your great aunt Petunia.

But it is a way of creating and expressing and getting almost instant results.

Same sort of thing for the blogging. Sometimes, I have no idea wtf I am gonna write about. I haven’t been able to put pen to paper at all. So I just pick a thought floating around in my bubbly grey matter and start madly thumb-typing away.

It is about getting synapses firing.

Blood pumping.

Creative juices bubbling and boiling until they simply spill out of your noggin.

Now I will leave you with a few pickies of the pours I (and by I, I actually mean me and the roomy) finished today.

Love

Amberley

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bloggity blog, writing

Summer shade

The cicadas are loud today

Singing their merry creed to the summer heat

Like lovers

Summer and cicada

Star crossed and long distance

They use the only words they know how

Trrrrrp trrrrrp trrrp the cicadas sing

The summer heats up

A southerly breeze blows

And the cicadas sing

The breeze coaxes leaves from the trees

They float down to litter the grass

Feeding the tree in turn to make new leaves

And the cicadas sing

A horse whinnies in the distance

Safe under the shade of a swaying, fragrant eucalypt

Parrots flock to the trees

Getting drunk off the sun-kissed flowers

And the cicadas sing

A storm teases the horizon with its darkness

Lightning crackles

Electricity in the sticky air

Thunder moans

Long…

and deep

And the cicadas sing

I sit under the shade of the tree

I breathe in the summer and exhale the hope for an early winter

But the shade kisses my skin, sweetly

The way only summer shade can

The scent of pool chlorine and eucalyptus and baked asphalt is thick

The aroma of a summer freshly cooked and ready to be devoured

And so

I eat

I gorge on summer

And the cicadas sing

Love

Amberley

This was just a random stream of thoughts as I sit and watched my kids play in the pool.

As most of you may be aware, I’m not huge on summer. But as I watch my kids in the pool… how much they love it. Splashing and floating and staying still to allow a dragonfly or wasp to come drink… It makes me hate on summer less and think more on the good, more on the love and deliciousness of everything…

bloggity blog, writing

Yet…

I miss the way you look when you are staring at something you love

The awe in your eyes

The gentle curve of an alomst-smile on your lips

Your brow smooth, worryless.

Me: Sally

You: Jack

I miss your gentle touch

The way you gather me up in your arms…

Me: a dandelion seed

You: a sweet, summer breeze

I miss the passion and the heat of you

Hot enough to start a fire but never burning my skin

Me: Morticia

You: Gomez

I miss the look in your eyes…

I miss the smile on your face when you see me.

As if I am a happy surprise

A gift you did not expect

And that smile is the special one you only show me.

Only my eyes have seen…

Me: Hermione

You: Ron

I miss your hand on my lower back.

Me: the canvas, blank, waiting

You: the paint, colour, life

I long for all these things.

And more…

All these things I have never had.

Because, I have not met you,

Yet…

Our paths have not crossed

Destiny has not pulled us together.

There must be more for us to do

More for us to learn

Apart

How do you miss someone you have never met?

Love

Amberley

PS this is in no way about goat-dragon.

I miss goat-dragon the way an insect misses pesticide. The way a snowman misses the desert. The way a dog misses its intestinal parasites.

Not at all…

FYI: This is the first time I have written about love in a long time… maybe something has healed. Maybe something has changed. I dunno. But if you made it this far, thank you for reading my terrible poetry. All the love…

Art, bloggity blog, writing

Does art have to say something?

As I return to my pour table this week after our many travels, I have found myself asking myself “but what does this piece say?”

My art normally says nothing unless my medium is words, because I choose not to use living subjects. But this is of course not what I fucking mean, is it? What I mean is “what am I trying to say?”

And what is my answer? I dunno, Amberley, what the fuck do you want to say?

I think, most of the time, my art doesn’t say anything. Sometimes, you can see the emotions I was feeling when I made the piece. Sometimes, it is a reflection of my personality. Sometimes, I just liked the way those colours went together or they were the only colours I had.

I think the same can be said for writing too. Sometimes we write something because we want to say something else. Sometimes we directly write about a subject so bluntly it is like getting smacked in the face with a giant dildo. Sometimes, we don’t want to say anything. We just feel like writing an entertaining blood-fest starring jungle pirates and cowboy faeries.

Does it make our work any less valid?

Does it change peoples perception of our work?

And does it even fucking matter what the author/artist wanted to say?

I did a painting a couple of months ago. I completely abstract one. I just liked the colours.

Someone really liked it and wanted it. But they liked it cause they saw a frog in it. I couldn’t see the frog. But they could. I didn’t paint a frog. But they saw one.

So, do we really need to be saying something or expressing something if others will only interpret it their own way anyway? Or is this the point? The sharing. The differnt views.

I dunno.

Love

Amberley

bloggity blog

Thoughts on finding new (to you) authors

This morning while checking my email, I saw that Mr Chuck Wendig posted on his blog. His fiction challenge was up and a guest blog post.

I do love these guest blogs.

I’m not sure if Mr W picks his guest posts by hand or if he has a Personal Assistant or if it is part of a magical lottery where authors and bloggers are sent an acceptance letter via mysterious night bird (this sounds familiar…) But however they are chosen, they always great.

Alright, I’m off topic slightly.

However we stumble upon them. Whether it be via another author, a friend, a book you find on sale at a second hand store or their name scrawled on a public bathroom wall, new authors are not exactly a rare find. But a good one is.

In the US, there are around 150,000 trad-pub authors and that number grows all the time. Not to mention all the self-pub authors. So it is basically impossible for us to know them all.

And yet, I feel guilty when I find someone and have to admit I had never heard of them or their books before.

This is, of course, insane.

I remember the day I found out about Holly Black. -The owner of a small bookstore was helping me find something new to read and took one look at my gothness and said “what about Holly Black?”

John Green! -I remember sitting at work and my neice popping in to see me. She was looking super Melancholy, so I asked her, “what’s up?” “John Green just ruined my life!” she spluttered. Now I’m #Nerdfighter for life.

Chuck Palahniuk… -I received a broken and beaten copy of Fight Club from a dear friend, it had been passed down to her from a friend and so on. I have no idea who originally bought it. I cannot remember who I passed it to and I have zero fucking clues as to who might have it today. And seeing as though it was a “pre-movie” copy, it might even be worth a tad… but it was pretty “well read” when I had it… so…

The point I am trying to make is that it really doesn’t matter how we find an author or a book. But every time you do, consider it a small miracle. Because, out of all the books and all the authors and all the readers out there, something brought you together.

Like destiny.

Like star-crossed lovers.

Love

Amberley

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I’m not religious but … thoughts on first drafts.

I’m not religious but I do believe in things we do not understand

Things science cannot yet explain

I’m not religious but I do believe in some sort of power, some sort of being or beings, some sort of guidance or plan or fate or destiny or path.

I cannot believe in cautionary tales written by men thirsting for control. But I do believe in the kindness of a stranger when you need it most. The coincidence is too perfect. I believe in the grace of rain when you are parched.

I am not religious but I pray. I do not kneel by my bed. Beads and a cross and a tiny dead man murdered for me to feel guilt, do not dangle from my shaking fists or pointing fingers. My hands do not tremble as I say a silent thank you for the person who did not need their furniture so they gave it all away. I say thank you for the person who breaks rules if it means a family can sleep under a roof. I say thank you for friends whose love is as limitless and bright as all the stars.

I’m not religious but I still sleep with a medallion above my head. St George and his faithful steed and even his dragon are with me always. The hand I can hold when I am alone. The symbol of my own strength. The only knight in shining arm that has ever saved me.

I’m not religious but I know wrong from right. I know good from bad. A moral compass is not just cross shaped. And even evil can bare a crucifix around its neck. A hoodie can hide a halo.

I’m not religious but I do not fear death but nor do I welcome it. Whether there is darkness or pearly gates/white fluffy clouds/angels singing on high/my old dog Ralph or rebirth. I will not know for sure, 100% , until I am there.

Even if we did know, 100%, that there was darkness and nothing more, I would still live the same way.

I’m not religious but I do believe in souls or that peiple can be soulful, and in soul food, and in soul searching, and that people can be soulless.

I do not believe in coincidence.

I do not believe in luck.

I do not believe in Jesus anymore than I believe in Thor or Ra or Satan or Hera.

Does this make me a bad person?

I’m not religious but I do believe in something… I believe that we all have a choice.

This is what one of my poems looks like in draft form. No editing.

I thought I would share it so people could see what a lump of unmoulded writing looks like. Kinda ugly, huh?

But we must treat all of our writing like our word-babies. Defend your ugly word-baby! Your word-baby is fucking beautiful to you and that’s all that matters. Now you just have to raise it to be the best word-person you can. It’ll never be perfect, just like real children and humans, but we keep trying.

Now, go forth and create your hideous word-brats without fear or self-loathing.

Love

Amberley