Hopelessly devoted

I’ve lost my heart to my art

This started as a casual comment in a conversation about art. A single sentence lingered in the back of my mind and refused to leave, asking for a revision — not of the words, but of what I feel underneath the surface of my reply.

You said you have a love/hate relationship with your art — and my reply, a little flippant, was that it’s very common amongst artists. Most of us know this tension: the struggle between loving our art, whatever form it takes and wrestling with it at the same time.

Do I ever feel this way myself? Well — it’s a little more complicated. Because I am in love with it. Deeply, hopelessly, devotedly, immortally in love.

It’s the kind of love that keeps you up all night because, like a fever, you can’t think about anything else. Sleep becomes impossible, overrated even, and the few restless hours are filled with vivid imagery — of word textures and fluid melodies. Like a carpet of moss, they weave themselves together, covering the dark green fields of my subconscious, hijacking my dreams.

It’s a fierce love — like a wildfire feeding on every brittle twig. My brain devours fragments of information of all kinds, finely tuned to collect whatever could build a new momentum of expression.

A jealous lover, that’s my art. If I turn away for too long — and “too long” is a heartbeat, two breaths, a single day spent with something else — the drama builds to Hollywood heights. Cascades of ideas knock the rest of my thoughts over, demanding attention, wanting to come alive, asking for leadership over whatever else my life asks me to do.

A love/hate relationship, me and my art?

No — I love. I love. I love. I love, and I don’t even want to escape. I let it take all of me, and I give every grain of myself with pleasure. I want to be fully consumed, digested, twisted. I let it rip me apart with the merciless precision of a twelve-foot wave. I let it swallow me whole. I drown in this love only to find myself again — all patterns of my soul newly arranged by a force I cannot resist.

A toxic relationship then?

No, dear, not at all.

It was love at first sight for me and I hope I’ll forever find myself worshiping this love. To be able to feel this way and fully dissolve into creativity is my remedy, my blessing, my life-saving oxygen. It is consensual and tender within all the intensity.

“But you’re giving so much! What’s in it for you?”

Love doesn’t ask for anything in return, and I don’t want anything back. I love.

I am in love with my art.