I'm reading the quote of Angelina Beloff, Diego Rivera's first wife, after he abandoned her for a series of other women, and I'm amazed how off-the-cuff, how disinterested, the statement sounded to my ears. "He has never been a vicious man, but simply an amoral one. His painting is all he ever lived for and deeply loved."
And then I thought, "Hell, the entire premise of TMZ and tabloid television is based solely on this reality." We admire our artists to the extent that we tolerate any amoral behavior, so long as they're not vicious or abusive or murderous. We live out our fantasies vicariously through their exploits and we crave the sensuous, the decadent, and the vivacious characters surrounding their worlds. We embrace that life force, that vitality...and that amorality, it just makes them more colorful and engaging.
Well, I am not so much the gigantic figure that lights up the room, that becomes the immediate beacon that all others cling to or gravitate towards. But I do understand the nature of selfish behavior and the struggle to maintain a balance with my art and the outside world. It's a part of my personality I don't always like confronting: I understand that my strong desire and drive to do creative things will take away time from my family, my friends, my loved ones, but the need to create supersedes all other connections. I succumb to my selfish whims every time.
But it's not like I shun all of humanity. I like to hold a table at a cafe and invite my friends along, to bring work, to enjoy the day, but few have the stamina to read a book or to draw or to sit for hours on end in conversation. I'm reading the stories of the cafes in Paris and Montparnesse, in the time where the great artists like Matisse and Picasso broke bread with poets like Apollinaire and played chess, talked art and ate themselves through menu after menu of good food and wine and fine coffees and pastry. These were the lean years of their youths, where they left sketches and paintings for the cafe owners for the loan for a meal or a bottle of wine. And they ate and talked and enjoyed life before the wars came and tore apart their idyllic worlds.
It's very hard to strive for a full, idyllic, artistic life. So much of reality pounces on that fantasy and pulls it toward the mundane tasks of living. And in those moments where I can find time to be with my sketchbooks and my thoughts and my omnipresent ipod, I guard them jealousy and savor them when they are good and productive. I understand my own selfishness at those moments and my need to be apart from the bustling crowd. During those times, slowness and contemplation are my well-worn friends.
Everything, these days, is increasingly connected with high speed, instantaneous velocity. After a day of zoning out on my PC or my laptop, I crave those selfish moments to tune out the rapid fire pace of life and relish the simplicity and slow ease of pencil on paper or ink on the crisp, tactile page. Good coffee or a cold iced-tea also helps to sustain me and gives me a boost, but my internal drive can chug along so long as I can maintain this invisible force-field to keep the manic world at bay.
I may not be amoral...but selfishness I understand.
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