Unfiltered Smoke

by Jody Coughlin

So, was my first installment dramatic enough for you? I hope so. Today, however, we must move on.

It truly seemed, once upon a time, that in order to paint, write or be creative in general, I had to hurt myself or someone else to do it. Lately though, the times are a changin’ in this girl’s life and changing in a very big way.

I am dancing to the beat of a different drum, these days. I have put down the knife, as it where, and picked up a good book; Tom Robbins for nemesis, Anaïs Nin for pain. I find myself in a strange place, a place where I seek the approval of only myself, offering an apologetic shrug to anybody who might expect more. They won’t be getting it…

I decided a while ago it was time to get healthy, to wipe the slate clean. All that snapping, darting, hurting and birthing leaves a girl feeling like she’s missing something on the internal plain; on the inside.

There has been far too much give and not enough take in my life. The well of my soul had run dry, dry as desert with no hope of rain. It was only when I went to take a drink and there was no drink to be had that I realized things had to change.

The time had arrived for a refill. This time around I came to the conclusion that the precious waters of my particular well shall from henceforth be dispersed a little more conservatively and a lot less destructively. More importantly, the time had come for me to simply relax.

I suppose creative types, at one time or another, fill the void with lots of interesting things, things that cause the mind to peel back layers of reality like the skin off a grape. Drugs, sex, booze…whatever your poison, it’s all the same trick in different hats. And that’s all very well and good, if you enjoy technicolor flashbacks and three-day hangovers. I don’t happen to like either of those negative side-effects.

My drug of choice has always been the exquisitely painful torrent of love. Or hate. Or any other similar emotional dregs. As long as it was painful, it did the trick. It generated plenty of inspiration to slash some paint across a canvas. I have been in love at least 26 times in the last 31 years, to illustrate my point. The continuum of an initial hurt was carried on via my penchant (my addiction) to emotional turmoil.

The thing is, I know about as much about being an artist as a monkey knows about being a burlesque on Broadway. The motions are there, for sure. Maybe that monkey could even pull off a fancy little ass-shaking dance now and then, maybe that dance could fool one or two folks who have had too much of the aforementioned substance intake. Who knows?

I don’t know where the world-class artists get their start, perhaps within the halls of academia. Perhaps from a master painter who has blazed a gloriously artistic trail and is now accepting minions. As for me, I started painting because I felt like I missed the boat a long time ago when all my friends where up and at’em, heading off to college or whatever escape from the everyday small town bullshit (pardon the farm reference) they might have desired.

I should have been on that boat too. But I wasn’t. I was back at port, so mired in the figurative muck of one form or another that I couldn’t seem to make it to the dock, let alone actually get on the damn boat.

I will tell you, feeling like you’ve missed out when you’re just a kid is the worst feeling in the world. It really is. It skews your view. It alters your sense of possibilty. I faced that type of despair daily, hourly and by the minute. For years.

Not one to be deterred I used that pain caused by life’s events (which I won’t describe here) to push myself to overcome whatever boundary it seemed to represent. So far, every single wall has fallen down. Flat.

Determination is a wonderful thing. It really is.

Listen, folks…Let me take the mystery out of art for you once and for all. The way I see it, we are all created beings, therefore it stands to reason that we are all creative beings as well. It is a gift, for sure and I think everybody has it in them. The only difference between Van Gogh and you may very well be the fact that he was not afraid to try. I am not afraid to try, either. I get up everyday and think about what I can create. Then, I simply try. It is that easy. I do it because it is what I want to do. To hell with anyone who says I can’t.

I have learned that shit happens and the success of your life and your happiness depends on what you do with the pain it causes. Are you going to use it or are you going to let it overtake you? I decided to use it. I used it to teach myself how to paint, how to write, to draw and how to do a million different things. Eventually a formula unfolded. My options became endless once I discovered my own personal formula required to teach myself the things I wanted to know. Find your formula and then apply it to your life. Doors will open and the world takes on a whole new meaning.

I wanted to prove to myself when I started to paint six years ago that there are other boats, canoes, rafts and various other forms of nautical travel to catch and guess what? It worked. It continues to work. I am just a lot happier doing it now. Tearing myself to pieces, emotionally speaking, has lost its charms and the nemesis, though useful for a while, has been put to rest.

Use pain to overcome even while it holds you back and then, let it go and stop taking yourself and art so seriously. As Tom Robbins so easily puts it; “Peeple of zee wurl, relax.”

Wiser words have never been spoken.