When I was in high school I choose art as one of my exam subjects.
People always tought I would go to art school.
I think that I myself thought that for a bit.
That was before I had art classes in school.
I remember I liked the occasional trip to the museum.
And I loved the other students, I finally made some real friends.
But I didn’t like modern art.
I didn’t like it that my drawings, my actual despictions of something were not good
I wonder if anyone ever thought that or said that about my pictures, but that is the
thought I picked up. Or is it a judgement?
Eitherway it made me thoroughly convinced that art school was not my thing.
That I was too rebellious for it and so it became something I never pursued.

The main scene that comes to mind when I think about that decision is the day we
had to paint a picture of some fruit the art teacher stylishly laid out on a table, and
we had to do it with the red, blue and yellow paint that was some special sort of
paint that didn’t mix into different colours. I can’t tell you how displeased I was
that I didn’t get to make green apples. And apart from the red I really hated the
other two colours and I just felt so angry that I could not make a beautiful picture.
And that somehow took all the joy out of painting for me.
Now, with the knowledge I have acquired in these twenty years since then, I
realise that it probably was a good lesson. I just wasn’t ready for it.
Or maybe someone could have made me understand the usefulness of trying
something new.
Of trying something uncomfortable.
Of making it work with different materials than what I was used to.
Of studying new ways to paint.
Of the usefulness of play and study.
The usefulness of making ugly art.
The usefulness of not making art.
The usefulness of making nothing.
Something you will tear up and throw in the bin.
I wish someone would have explained all that to me then.
Maybe I would have gone to art school then.

But that reminds me of this guy I once met, who went to art school and was very
negative about it. The teachers and staff didn’t like his realistic style and
commented on that. He then decided, just out of some sort of “to hell with them”
frustration to draw stick figures.
They loved it.
He was furious.
They are kidding right?
They weren’t.
They considered his “stick figure rebellion” true art.
He quit.
Later I saw that movie “Art school confidential” and there was a same story line. It
cracked me up, so hilarious. Cause in the end…..it is kinda weird that there’s a
group of people out there who gets to decide what’s art and what is not.
I think in the end that was my big turn-off.

I think the real point of making art is to let inspiration flow through you. The point is
to enjoy what you make. That you feel a sense of connectedness to the muse, to
inspiration, to something bigger than yourself. That you feel creation flow through
you. And that it really doesn’t matter who is going to like it when it’s done.

Thát is what I want to do with my Wild Woman Writer project.
I want to connect with my muse, through yoga nidra and let the words flow
through me. Paste them on paper and suprise myself with it.
And give myself absolute and total freedom to enjoy myself with the writing.
It’s not for anyone else.
I long to write something without a target audience in mind.
I don’t want an audience for this fulling of my cup.
It has been too long that I have wandered around with my empty cup.
Why have I never given myself permission to write like this?
I may figure that out along the way.
I do know that I welcome the “nothing”
I welcome that yoga nidra dream.
Somehow I trust that nothing is going to bring me all I need this year
And I can’t wait to see what stories will unfold
Stories about nothing.
That’s the project title.
The goal: writing my green apples
The way I like them.
In my colours.
Just for me.
I get to snuggle up in my comfi zone and fill and refill my pretty little teacup.
Just for me & my muse