Every artist has a muse, irrespective of gender or, indeed, the situation. So many artists and their muses have been eternalised in the books of history – Francis Bacon and George Dyer, Edouard Manet and Victorine Meurent, Pablo Picasso and Dora Maar (one among his six muses), and Salvador Dali and Gala Diakonova to name a few. Continue reading
Travelling on Friday evening from Stuttgart to Villach, Austria, there were no seats free in any of the train carriages, so I joined a few other passengers on the floor. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds, really – the trains in Germany are fairly clean and the floor is carpeted, at least I didn’t have to worry about my derrière getting sore. An hour or so later, I realised, happily, that sitting on the floor was, in many ways, better than sitting up there on the seats. I could stretch out my long legs completely and adjust my sitting position to my liking. I could also observe my fellow passengers unobtrusively and from a different angle — how interesting it is to observe humans when they don’t know they are being watched!
One thing I have realised, after a few years of writing in the hopes of creating that one masterpiece, is that happiness is detrimental to creation. Not the fleeting kind of joy we get from the small pleasures in life, but the all-consuming happiness that arises from contentment. Happiness just does not provide a fertile-enough mind in which ideas can grow. Though happiness is the final goal every person strives to reach, for an artist, the journey is more rewarding than the goal. The minute an artist gets the impression that he is happy, that he is content, he stops. Rather, his creativity takes a long pause to revel in the newly-achieved happiness and puts a full-stop to the process of generating ideas.
She saw the man sneaking into her garden, headed for the rampions. She sighed. ‘Not again,’ she thought. ‘Weren’t the ones he stole last night enough?” She went down to the castle’s garden and waited for him by the wall.
She didn’t have to wait for long. He came back in a couple of minutes, his arms full of violet rampions. He had a relieved look on his face, which quickly changed to one of terror as she stepped out of the shadows.
“D…Da…Dame G…Gothel!” he stuttered in fear. The rampions fell out of his trembling hands and rolled on the ground around his feet.
“Yes,” she snapped. “How dare you steal anything from my garden! And the rampions, no less! I spend months cultivating them and you steal them all, night after night. You shall pay for this!”