“From the garden rose the sound of bees that lurched and wobbled through the peonies. We ate eggs, French toast, drank milk that warmed in minutes in the sun while fat drones swarmed and looped like drunkards in the purple field. On the porch we heard their bodies yield to wills their fuzzy minds don’t understand. They smelled the stains of syrup on your hand and one, in gold-encrusted drunken strut, smeared pollen from its mandibles and gut along your wrist. That morning you had tied your hair, and as you rose and ran inside, it gently bounced, and loosed, and then unfurled. If the next is better, I’ll still miss this world.”
How do you come up with ideas for series of artworks? I never can. I can make a pair, or maybe three artwork that compliment each other and then I get bored and move on to a new idea. The problem is I have to complete an AP concentration and, really, I've got nothing. Could you share some of your ideas to give me inspiration? Any help would be a lifesaver at this point.
hmmmm. I work in stories in my head, and I am not a succinct type of person so I rarely can tell a story/idea with just one picture. That said sometimes I feel blocked too (okay, quite often).
Sometimes I deliberately choose something that has “multiples”. for example, when I wanted to practice watercolors, I wanted to do something long enough to be able to start understand the medium. I thought of different little portraits I could do, and then I thought about the different incarnations of The Doctor in Doctor Who. There’s 11 of them! To complete the project I would have to do 11 portraits. That seemed like a good way to start and I didn’t have to ask myself, “who should I paint next?” because I knew already, so I could just focus on painting and learning the medium.
I suggest you pick a larger theme, something that inspires you right now: The ocean, forests, museums, books, etc. Something big and rather vague. Then make a list (yes a list!) of the things you love about it, the things you associate with it, from objects (seashells, pine trees, insects, etc.), to insubstantial things (loneliness, happiness, wistfulness, etc.) to colors, etc. Anything. I find that when I do that, there are themes and pictures in my head that start emerging, work on these ideas and separate them into however many paintings/artworks you need to do.
That’s one way, among many, to go at it. If you are still blocked you can choose something more fixed. Like if you need to do 7 artworks, for example, you can start with something that has 7 multiples, like the days of the week, and go from there.
I used to carry a dream in my right pocket, tucked safely in the furthest corner. I never put anything else in this pocket for fear that by taking them out I would inadvertently pull out the dream and lose it, the way you lose coins and pieces of paper with phone numbers on them. The dream had a soft weight, comforting against my thigh, slightly warm. I would constantly put my hand in my pocket and brush my fingers against the dream, feel its contours, its shape, letting its warmth spread through my hand and nestle in my shoulder, my whole arm glowing with unlimited potential. At night I would put it under my pillow and listen to the soft song it murmured through the darkness, carrying me through my sleep, until the morning light shone through the diaphanous drapes on my bedroom window. Then back in the pocket, the dream would go, and there it would stay, with me always, the most precious of all cargo I had ever had in my possession.
Until one day, after days, maybe years of carrying it, of knowing its weight, its shape, its very essence, I could not recognize it anymore. The language it spoke to me at night was foreign, the glowing warmth that used to fill my arm was icy cold. It had turned against me, or I had turned against it, but it was strange and alien to my heart. I thought I could learn to know it again, learn to love it again. I still loved it, in fact. Still wanted it, but could not reach it anymore. It was slippery like water on ice, and my fingers were buttery and the dream would evade my desperate grasp. So, one day, I slowly put my hand in my right pocket, pulled out the dream, and in one swift motion, I let it fall in the gutter. And I walked away.