This post is a follow up piece to The Artists Way: insight or intellect Part I and the brief record of the outcome of abstaining from reading for seven days.
A week without reading wasn’t the trial I expected, in fact I welcomed the sensory shift.
Switching the iPhone to silent kept the pings at bay, but I cannot tell a lie, as I did catch myself participating in the occasional mindless peek at the gossip on twitter.
Notwithstanding dear reader, I kept my vows of text abstinence. Apart from devouring a tract found in a public phone booth in Kings Cross, it was seven days of no books, newspapers, blogs or magazines.
The real challenge however, was the break in my social networking rhythm. Once the channels were switched off, I realized how dependent I’d become on the conversations and social noise.
Withdrawals from addictive behaviour isn’t easy, particularly the addictions of polite society. Declaring oneself addicted to alcohol or pornography seems somehow easier than rebutting the polite distractions of shopping, sex, over exercising, online dating, or social networking.
Whatever it’s name, the pervasive theme of all addiction is distraction. At best, frivolous distractions help us avoid the disturbing idea something is missing, or avoid the pain of unmet longings. At it's worst, addiction manifests in destructive behaviour that leads to the annihilation of the body or soul.
My underlying problem, that can no longer be ignored, is I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, I’m haunted by the idea there is something else I should be doing, or the possibility there's no compatible soul mate. I live with a pervading anxiety I will exit stage left, leaving whatever it is I’m suppose to do, incomplete.
Little wonder I’m perplexed, as my mothering and caretaker roles were completed a number of years ago. Yet like a child checking their growth, I'm always measuring myself in front of the mirror, or asking what do grown ups do when they ...grow up!
For most of my life, my longings and desires were of no account, my life (even my body) was not my own. As the eldest of eight siblings, I was cast in the role of a third parent; from a tender age I was well trained in the arts of caring for others. I grew up guilt ridden if I acted out, or I dared ask for even the slightest consideration.
Which brings me back to my distraction free, errr, skoozameee,,, I mean... reading free week.
Instead of going cold turkey, I seized the day, and began opening up my inner rooms. There and then, last Sunday when I shut down my systems, I drew open the blinds, beat the dust out of the carpet, and loudly evicted the unpaid tenants of doubt and fear.
Every morning this week, with great intention, I closed the door of responsibilty behind me, ignored my snivelling, insecure artistic self, and set about my journey with ease. Beginning in the cloke room, and the trophy room I moved to the stateroom, and began to launder my self sabotaging thinking .
A pretty good start wouldn’t you say, but it gets better...
For three to four hours a day, my sexy SLR and I worked in untenanted locations on a series titled, wait for it ‘open up the rooms.’
Hours were spent experimenting with the camera, the light, angles and taking risks. [such as sneaking into the Administration block at Silverwater Correctional Center, where I was removed with officious ambition]
Where she goes to from here is anyone’s guess, but I’m too far in to back out now, and besides who’s to judge my work, who’s the best judge of my expression, if not myself!
My inner critics gnarled finger may never be competely silenced, but what’s all the events of the last ten years, twenty ...thirty (ok, OK already.... and the rest ... ) been for, if I continue to live under her pointed glare.
I don’t ordinarily subscribe to the philisophies of others, but for me The Artists Way, has become a useful travel guide, while driving my life to the next pinnacle.
My question 'The Artists Way: insight or intellect?' speaks for itself really, as without intelligent resistance to the distractions of this digital, visually desensitized age, the insights we crave stand like beggers in the dungeon of our discontent.
This image is only one of a larger series titled 'open up the rooms' which is posted on my salon diplomatiKa Artists profile.
an urban, candid photographer that captures life at the rawest edges throughout my travels either side of sydney or new york