A Life in Photographic Art my second book
My muse of two or more years. It is always the eyes that separate art from glamour. These eyes tell the story and explore the soul of the artist. Her eyes are my eyes, my eyes are hers, speaking volumes to those who listen.
Inspiration and creation, the muse is both sometimes she is a women, sometimes not. Working with a muse that is a women is a very intimate experience.
Sometimes you know right away that the connection is right, again it is the eyes they speak and dance in a language that only you can hear it is magic! We work, talk, laugh and the time disappears. She is a mirror of my reason for creating, an alphabet for me to comment with, we dance this creative minuet both thinking we are in control both knowing that neither of us is, there is only the moment it is brief, lasting forever.
There is more to come here including thoughts from The Muse, I hope to find others thoughts also on their creative muses. As I said the muse isn’t always a women or even a person. It is creation, it is thought, it is emotion. Comments are encouraged I don’t want to write to myself.
Share some creation. enjoy pjc
Photographic Art
After a couple of sessions I asked Tara to write an impression of what working with me as a Muse was like, she wrote this poetic piece relating her first day meeting me and our first session.
Spanikopita Session Impressions
Propelled by protesting belly,
Feet on automatic pilot
She found herself in Paradise
A right brained haven
In a low broken town
Stepping aside to contemplate palate
She tripped on adventure
And slipped into excitement
Intrigued and intimidated
She followed zeal to Bellevue
Arriving early and unsure of own courage
He was cordial inviting her in
There was a certain whimsy to him
A skipping about of interjections and stories
To serve as conversation
His demeanor was less than timid, far from settling.
Generally jovial, his quick smile seemed to prepare her for
Whatever came next……
Something always came next!
But not without ….. pause, for thought, or breath or for effect?
The anticipation never wavers.
Wobbling on tip-toes she stretches for thought.
A master of mystery or is it mischief?
He disguises conclusion until he is ready.
The meetings are hardly dull,
And the outcome is nothing short of wonder.
And though the temperature remains a constant chill
Subsequent digits seem to accelerate faster than inspiration allows.
He is left, as she scurries reluctantly out the door
Outward and onward, her with the hope,
And him with the promise of more.
© Tara “The Muse”
Peter, I wanted to leave a comment under the “pondering tree” but couldn’t. So I searched for this picture here to comment on it, (I’d seen it yesterday when I took a stroll here in this photographic garden) cause I liked it so much, as well as your musings.
The tree poem: it gives poetic words to thoughts I often have when I see old trees, looking upon us. I suppose it feels the same, regardless the nationality of the tree or it’s onlooker.
If we looked more often at old trees like the one in your picture, perhaps we would be less in trouble.
Your muse: it seems as if both of you are artists AND muses. I love this idea of mutual inspiration.
love
Andrea
Here is my alter ego, in case you haven’t seen her yet, musing about life in Paris and elsewhere:
http://missdoodlesday.blogspot.com
Very beautiful. You and Tara richly express the intangible, the wordless put into ethereal image filled with hunting eyes and (remarkably) Tara’s words that are not words but energy expressed. Magical, elusive and palpable.
I still remember that day we met, and all the beautiful images created, fun times throughout the years, and great conversations we had. Hope this finds you wealthy and warm. ~tära
I think you are right that an artist and their muse inspire and are connected and reflect each other and yet, they are separate. My first husband does mixed media sculpture, but his greatest work is in photography. For a long time I was his muse and mush of his work is very abstract. Back then I almost always wore a head scarf and my favorite piece with him was one that hid all, but my eyes.
The sadness I spoke of in your work is not so much of loneliness, but of grasping the true reality of oneself and our existence. The line, “so that he might feel his solitude more acutely.” Paul Valery, Tel Quel
Thanks Sharon. Reviewing Paul Valery peace pjc