A short story

A small tale of a middle aged artist.

I have always considered myself a rather odd and quite spontaneous  individual. Prone to suffer bouts of behaviour  a little left of centre, rather like  compulsions. I would  suddenly become over whelmed to, perhaps, sculpt a number of things, for example a two foot Gorilla out of clay. These creative bouts  knew nothing about  convenience, so if I was in the super-market at the time, it made little difference to my having to heed these compulsions. Ridiculous but never the less a creative bent must be listened to, irrespective of the where and when.

This is how it had always been for me. I suppose I, and my family, have become accepting of this rather spontaneous and questionable behaviour. The problem was it was starting to take over all aspects of my life and it was causing many raised eyebrows. When I marvelled at the perfect structure on the sliced body of a field mushroom, my enthusiasm was not shared by the workmen awaiting their breakfast rolls in the queue at the burger van I was working on.

There was only one thing for it! I had to find a place where I could get the right treatment. I enrolled on a three-year degree course at university. Not a nearby campus, “oh no, not for me”, I had to enrol in the course some eighty miles round trip away,as this was the only one that could provide the correct therapy for my needs. I was assured that this establishment had the best experts in the land and under their guidance I would be a changed person. I was relieved,as I was out of the house for long periods of time, leaving them to use the dining room for its original purpose. Which was not glueing and sticking apparently.

From the very first day, despite being encouraged to play with potatoes, I was hooked,I had found a place were my madness was not only embraced, but encouraged .Much to my delight I discovered that not only the students but the tutors all suffered the same compulsion. Wow! Here is where I have been schooled in harnessing this condition that I have come to call ” CREATIVITY”. It has taken some time and a great deal of effort. Not least because I first had to learn to speak a new language, as it was evident that those in command spoke an unusual and unfamiliar dialect.

I am growing in confidence and have even begun to use some of this new-found language outside of this university environment.I find the best places to exercise this dialect safely seems to be in places like, museums and galleries. Not so much on train stations or in the hair dressers, as the long translation that usually results cannot be heard over the noise of the passing trains or hair dryers. Besides which I have a feeling that my hairdresser, is just being polite with her  gentle nodding and smiling.

Now when I get the urge to go home and sculpt a two foot gorilla, I  know I first have to explore the reasoning behind it, then I research the best way to do it, along with examples of how other’s have gone about doing this.Should I find that I am in the super-market when this compulsion arises, I have learned to check out the vegetable section for inspiration.

I am happy to say that through all these experiences, and my new-found language, it has been discovered that I am not suffering from some rare psychological disorder. The affliction that I am prone to is called “Art”.

I can now say with my hand on my heart and an overwhelming sense of relief  ” I am an artist”.

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