WHAT IS A MUSE?
It is said that every artist needs a muse. But…we cannot simply seek a muse, we find them - or they find us - and often in the strangest places. My own muse does not even exist in any real, tangible sense. Oh yes, he exists as a human being - I have met him so how could he now - but the reality of that person is a mystery. Perhaps a muse who is real - flesh and blood - cannot exist, a contradiction in terms, that their reality makes their ability to inspire null and void. They are not a physical presence, but rather an idea, a concept. My muse is a shadowy figure with whom I interact in a way which is paradoxically both incredibly deep and extremely superficial. An ego hides profound insecurities and a game is played where I am a willing participant, although there is another one, a game which I am playing, unknown to him. So through dishonesty is a false reality created in which my imagination can soar, and there is a beauty inherent in the deceit which can never be equalled by truth.
Sometimes I question myself, why am I so mired in such odd relationships? Things seem so far removed from what I am told is reality that I wonder why I can’t exist there. And then I realise that if I did I would not be me, I would not think and feel as I do. So the price to pay for creativity is existing in a twilit netherworld inhabited by strange creatures who can harm us. From the blood and tears we shed the seeds of ideas germinate and art becomes a physical actuality. And so I continue to dwell here, not caring if those around me understand me or not, for my muse cannot exist in their reality and without a muse I am not an artist.