The world is our muse. Cameras, illustration programs, graphics tablets and styli serve as our brushes with which we paint what we see or how we feel. Messages of encouragement are painted artfully with broad vibrant strokes; warnings are masterfully created with precision and contrast, feelings of loss or sorrow –wailed by a siren in darkened and subdued shades. No matter the outcome, the process of creating something from nothing is exhilarating. Intoxicating.
Then, sometimes… inexplicably… frustratingly… pop!
This fragile bubble of creativity breaks, and then… nothing… Where have the ideas gone? What do we do? You have waited all day to sit down with a piece of paper to sketch, or imagined dramatic scene, but then… the paper remains blank. Your hands paralyzed. The creativity has hidden, or worse yet, has died.
Our only solace is when it comes back, and it does indeed come back. It's that phoenix-like rise from the ashes which happens as spontaneously as the loss itself. That spark is a welcome fluke, an inexplicable anomaly before we master it. As we grow accustomed to our productivity, and sink into it, we realize that the spark never went out. It's a star during the daytime. It's there; you just can't see it clearly until you rise above all of the other distractions.