I always imagine artists in the frenzy of their inspiration: hammering the keyboard, slashing the canvas, or firing their ratta-tat-tatta shutter at their subject.
I’ve never been one of those persons.
I don’t know that I’ve ever felt inspiration.
Sometimes (rare times), I forget to think. I act. My mind dims, yet my fingers type. My hand guides my camera guides my face, and photos are taken. These black-out moments often result in great works—but I hardly remember them. There’s no fun—no elation. Where’s my eureka moment?
Most often, like getting out of bed, I push through the webs of distraction and despair and with great determination I force myself to repeat the same old photographic process that enamor so many to my work, yet bores me to tears. I look at the results, sigh, and try again, and again, and again, and—
*mutes his phone*
…eventually, something a little different results. It’s not great, it’s even new, really; it’s just skewed a degree from the norm. And it looks okay. Possibly good, but at least not bad. So, I save it to my catalog. I look. Two hours have passed.
“Should’ve been faster. Hardly anything at all.”
And I continue.
Is this inspiration? Or am I just broken?
Or perhaps I am a non-artist who, through a sheer force of will, still manages to produce art. Well, at least that’s sort of positive…