Not all my inspirations were writers. Some were painters, some musicians and some imaginary. At one time I was ‘infatuated’ with Paul Gauguin. I have reproductions of several of his paintings; including the Oriana Maria, The White Horse. I read the 1971 biography ‘Gauguin’s Paradise Lost” by Wayne Anderson repeatedly before lending to someone who never returned it 😦 I’ve read his collected letters.
Looking back I suspect it was his suffering as much as his painterly eye that fascinated me. Like his compatriot Van Gogh, he was derided by his contemporaries. I felt he was a true artist, one not enslaved by marketing, by the need to produce work that would sell. Though he was disappointed that his work didn’t sell, his sense of vision didn’t change.
I envied his travels in Peru, Denmark, Martinique, Tahiti, the Marquesas, & his life in France. I used to dream about my own Tahiti escape, though I’d be more inclined to let the local native men colonize me. It seemed like a time of greater innocence & of a deeper respect for the artist. He also had a gift for titles: “Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?” 🙂 His influence goes on in the art world.
As an inspiration his persistence in following his vision is a passion that I emulate. Sure, I’d love to be a best-seller but writing for marketability isn’t driving me creatively. It never really did. I knew a writer once who was putting down commercial press while trying to come up with a concept that would get her a writing grant. The market she picked was driving her creativity.
There are studies looking at the roots of genius – Van Gogh & poisonous paint (& other mental issues). Gauguin and untreated social disease. There are discussions of their problematic relationships with women filtered though the sensibility of 2019 values. Does it matter?
Why Why Why
I’ve never figured out why
I prefer hairy to smooth
why what I want rarely wants me
and when it does
I wonder what the hell is going on
I can’t deal with this
it can’t last
I’m better at longing than getting
there must be some mistake
like those lottery numbers
that I never really believe will line up for me
if they did would I believe my tired eyes
well I guess I would but
I’m not holding my breath
I don’t understand how
one day he’s all smiles
and the next is at death’s door
how a slap can mean true love
why rescue is the only way to be compassionate
how money can’t buy me
but you can make an offer I might not refuse
I never really figured what he sees in her
what she sees in him
why does the moon shine
when there is no one to make love under it
I don’t get why
the subway is always full
when I need to sit down
why that cd skips on my favorite song
why I never got past the credits on Friends
I don’t comprehend
a media so fascinated with
droopy-eyed doped up babes
that it takes an assassination of a world leader
to get those haggard pop stars
off the front page for a few days
a very few days
when did news turn into entertainment
when did hockey become a free-for-all
blood on the ice
more interesting than goals
I don’t understand weather
why one day there is ice
the next day swarms of cuddly nuzzling winds
what happened to the good old days
which actually never existed
for people like me
who just don’t understand
who find it hard enough to decide
which designer knock-off to wear
without feeling like I’m exploiting someone
why does the world keep on turning
when there is nothing
but diseased air to turn in
I don’t understand
but luckily I don’t have to
in order to be blissful
every Tuesday 2019
June – Capturing Fire 2019 – Washington D.C. capfireslam.org
August 2-13: getting back to my roots in Cape Breton
Hey! Now you can give me $$$ to defray blog fees & buy coffee in Washington at 2019’s capfireslam.org – sweet,eh? paypal.me/TOpoet
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