It occurred to me, as I walked those two blocks to Cee-Cee’s:
Maybe, this transformation (metamorphosis?) I’ve undergone is only the fateful outcome of a promise-filled, yet banal, solitude. Outside of any fear I’ve carried [about perpetually being alone] a thin layer of solitude could be discerned, always present, pushing me ever deeper into withdrawal.
What developed in this creative solitude, I’d devised and mastered, was a distinct indifference towards any fear of aloneness:
I was comfortable in my solitary surroundings; separateness from others no longer mattered to me. The nib, while sketching, or the brush, while painting, became the center of my life. The aloneness I immersed myself in carried a distinct echo of ease, comfort. What I found, to my utter delight, after months of concentrated effort, was I could transcend the paired realms of resignation and depression. It was from this contrary nexus of solitude (so much, like a womb, it was) I’d managed to shut out, completely, the outside world.
The chattering mouths.
All telephones; and, answering machines, disconnected.
All laughter, and sadness and world events, and more sadness; and, conflict and further chattering, [No celebrities, and useless non-real conversation] on television.
All relationships, [family, and especially, friends] pushed aside, for an extended vacation.
In a word, “Everything” other than Myself, or what could be put on canvas; what could be touched, with a brush, in Art. Whatever creativity I possessed, [and, there are those who still dispute any notion of creativity in my Work]; whatever, small beer talent I might’ve pursued in my Liverpool days, attached itself to my aloneness like a pair of hot tongs, refusing to let go. I had only myself to fall back on.
And so, from that moment forward, a small part of my secret soul dominated each canvas.
The forty paintings I dried and leaned against the white walls of my loft, were the penultimate expression of my singularity of purpose. A huge piece of myself, previously lying dormant, was revealed with each small dab of the brush.
I just couldn’t see it.
I just wouldn’t see it.
Swept up, within my own passion, I became blind to every subtlety of Self, residing in these dark Works of Art. The subtext of these paintings was inspired by my own deeper secrets, revealed. I was bound, and at the same time boundless; a flashing yellow light of inspiration. It was this, and this alone, carrying me forward.
Working alone. Working at a breathless pace. Discovering myself, more alive than ever before.
This was a heady time for me. Each shallow part of myself seemed to thicken into something expansive. It was more than I’d ever hoped to become. There was too much promise staring me in the face; too much gold-leafed framing to be done. I knew there’d be no turning back now; there’d be no turning away from these paintings, and the eventual impact they’d have upon the public’s perceptions.
These paintings would eclipse the Museum of Modern Art’s unveiling of Ian Rodgers’ work. Rodgers’, “Beauty,” would become a pale-skinned comparison. [This is what I thought, felt, and gathered, with each boundless, unclouded, step I took towards Cee-Cee’s red-brick building; carrying, a white and green colored bottle of sack-cloth wine, humming a tone-deaf tune, and not giving a Christmas fig about it. Who heard? Who cares? I was gone upon myself, flying. As free as ever from solitude. Way too happy for my own good; and, walking into something I didn’t see, didn’t expect.
When you’re full of yourself, you can assume anything.
I didn’t know that then.
It would take Beauty--lovely, Beauty-- to teach me that.
[End of Part Four]--08/08/09.--William H. Balzac.--Deer Park; New York.