A good artist does not let herself be controlled by her emotions. Rather, she takes these emotions, puts them in a clear glass, and all she has to do is observe. Observe the joy rise in waves, big waves, and then observe the sadness seeping through slowly, dark, taking over the big joyous waves and crashing them against the glass.
But even then, even when the sadness soaks through, determined to break her, to control her, she must be fearless. She must wait and simply observe, and by all means, never let the waves break the glass.
If she is patient enough, she will have the privilege of getting to see the force of Relief flooding through, bringing the sad waves down, calming her.
But even then, she must not be totally overwhelmed by this relief. We all know how short relief lasts, before dopamine starts working again, and the joy floods through. Only this time, its waves will not rise as high, and the artist will be wise to remember that with joy, comes sadness lurking around the corner.
A process; a never-ending cycle that never lets the artists be truly happy, be truly content. But she must remember to try and be content. She must remember to stay as calm as possible. To sit still in her chair when the big waves of joy take over.
To sit still in her chair when sadness, slow and dark, seeps through.
To sit still even in relief and by all means, never let these emotions control her.
But what happens when just as the artist masters the art of remaining calm, another emotion introduces itself? This one not only slow, or high, or calm.
This one is all of them. Slow, fast, high, low, calming, nerve-wrecking.
The emotion that takes hold of her, takes hold of the glass of emotions, and instead of attempting to break it, it rocks it gently from side to side, then just when the artist thinks she is okay, it becomes violent, pushing the glass, pushing her to the brink.
But it never attempts to break her. No. Never.
This emotion is both cruel and sweet, both gentle and violent.
An emotion that does not let her sit still, so she rises, walks around her room, hands on her wildly racing heart.
An emotion that makes her think of watching a movie, then suddenly think of reading a book, then suddenly, think of taking a shower, then suddenly, think of going out for a walk.
An emotion that knocks the breath out of her, and make her lie down on bed, contemplating on how to control it.
Breath in, breath out, she tells herself.
But the breaths are not deep enough.
Deeper. She tells herself again, eager, determined to rid herself of this emotion.
But it does not go away. It forces her to sit up in bed, aimless.
She thinks of texting someone, calling someone. Surely, someone can help, can’t they?
But the person she calls acts suspicious, and by the end of the call, the tides of the emotions have increased by strength. They are wrecking her, she knows.
And was the friend she just called really a friend? Does she regard the artist as a human being or a piece of flesh? And most importantly, does she really miss her as she suggested in the call?
The emotion tells the Artist No, so the Artist lies back in bed, again aimless. She can feel the tears, but she doesn’t want to let them out. The Emotion is winning, she knows that. Yet, yet, she doesn’t want it to.
So, for the first time, the artist does what she has never done. She gets up from bed, goes to her chair, sits down.
It’s useless trying to be calm, and she no longer tries.
So she gets out her notebook, and a pen, and then she does what she will know will get rid of the emotion once and for all.