I am not one of those people who believe that artists and writers are different from anyone else. There is no magic or mystery about us, no special life of torment and drama, no mystical neural channels that no one else posesses. Creative people love to wrap themselves and their lives in mystical mumbo-jumbo so that we sometimes appear to be more exotic than a mechanic or a bank teller. I think not. Those people know how the world works and the make it work, and this is every bit as important as any piece of art. For me, there is no glory for the martyr, no sadder story than self importance.
We are not any different from you. We are you. We worry about money, health, life, kids, the future, just the way anyone else does. Our minds are just as mundane, anxious and preoccupied with distraction as anyone. The only difference, I think, is the work, the choice of work. Other people choose careers and squeeze images and color into the periphery. For an artist, the images are the work, so they look for them and see them more clearly and quickly than the reset of us. An artist, a writer, is a person who chooses to try and make sense of the light, colors, images and stories of the world. In my life, this means looking up and seeing a beautiful blue vase with a beautiful fresh flower in it, on a windowsill that was empty the night before. I did not see the vase or the flower, or the possibilities in either. Writers do not think that way.
But life with an artist can be wonderful. It means rushing to grab my camera and holding up breakfast – the artist understands this and is not annoyed – and taking a photo, answering the impulse to share. There is art to that, too. Maybe it takes an artist to love a beautiful image as much as it does to make one. It is the great fringe benefit of my life with an artist.