For me, creativity is just being interested in something, and then responding to it. I do it in paintings, drawings and photographs, but that’s after I’ve been inspired. Inspiration comes from outside of me. It enters my brain through one or more of my senses. Then it is no longer outside. It’s gotten in. My neurons devour it, or at least respond to it. They move the pieces around, figuring out what they can do with it. My job is just to be open, and put myself out where I can see it in the first place. My brain is dissecting it before I’m conscious of it.
I don’t try to be creative. When I do try to conjure some creative output, I find myself frustrated or disappointed.
It’s like a seed that is planted when I see. It begins to grow long before it pokes its head out where I am aware of it.
I’ve always done this. The more I do it, the less panic I feel. With practice I guess I get better at responding.
I can only catch the fish that are in the water. I have to relax. The little ideas of today may be bait for the deeper waters of tomorrow.
I’m my own inspiration and obstacle. My expectations both spur me on and get in my way. All I have is this moment to sit and rest, and allow the visions to loosen and flow.
Over the past several months, I’ve taken a lot of pictures and videos of trains. I used to own a Great Northern Railway caboose. I ran a coffee shop and art gallery out of it.
I’m really not all that interested in trains! I like them. We didn’t have them where I used to live, and now I can hear them from my bedroom window.
I enjoy the hunt. The trains are unpredictable here because they are not passenger trains. You never know when they will pass by. So I’ve kept an eye on the signals.
One day, a railway employee stopped by while I was eyeing a flashing yellow light. He asked a few times whether I was alright. I didn’t understand. I thought maybe he didn’t want me taking pictures of trains.
The other day, I was out near the tracks. It was cold out. Cars were passing, and I noticed one car going really slow over the tracks. I made eye contact with the woman driving. She did a double take at me and went on her way. A little while later, before the train came by, a police officer pulled up behind me. I’d gotten back into my car because of the cold wind. He also asked whether I was alright.
I told him I was fine, but he needed reassurance.
“I like trains,” I said. “I take pictures of them.”
He asked about my camera, and I showed him my GoPro.
He told me that someone had called in about me because she was concerned.
“Concerned about what?” I asked.
“Concerned that you might throw yourself in front of a train.”
I was shocked.
He also asked to see my license, since he was responding to a call.
I’m not depressed. Certainly not suicidal.
I don’t cross the guard rails. I don’t stand on the tracks, or even on the railway property. I park my car out of the way of traffic. I usually stand on a snowmobile trail.
Where I used to live, I took pictures of boats. We don’t have them here. As I said, we didn’t have trains there.
Taking pictures of trains is fun for me. It’s interesting, and free. I’ve found it to be a cool thing about my new home.
During the summer, I take videos when I go bike riding. I clip the camera onto my helmet. I don’t ride my bike in the winter.
So that’s it. That’s why I post so many pictures of trains. There are large communities of people who do the same thing, and post them to instagram. It’s not just me. No one has to worry about me. No one has to call the cops. I’m fine. I’m happy. I’m well. Please just let me enjoy my hobbies even if you don’t love to do the same thing as me.
The railway employee who checked on me just told me to be safe. I asked the police officer if there was something wrong with what I was doing. He said “No, it’s fine, just as long as you are alright.”
My brother suggested maybe the person who called 911 had lost a loved one who jumped in front of a train. I wonder if she calls the police whenever she sees someone near a train track.
I remember a time when I used to write about art every day. My creative process and philosophy was the thing that kept me grounded, and in touch with my inner self.
The words just seemed to flow out of me effortlessly. I pictured the colors lined up in my arm, just waiting to trickle through my hand and out my fingertips onto the canvas.
Within this seemingly endless supply of ideas, I knew that I would have to take time to do other things, too. I had to live things outside of my studio so that I would have something to say.
It kept me from being concerned about the days or weeks when I was not painting.
I also believed, and still believe, that I didn’t need to strive or force the inspiration to come. If I just lived my life, and picked up a paintbrush during that living, my next big thing would come. It would show itself to me. This usually happened after the thing had already appeared. I was playing, and enjoying whatever interested me. Not contrived, not based on what I thought anyone else would like. I’d discover a niche that was true to me.
When I moved to the Iron Range, I tried to think of some local perspective I could present from a newcomer’s viewpoint.
Chestnut Street appealed to me, and I tried to think of a new angle to paint it from.
What happened naturally, without ever trying, was midnight walks, photographing an abandoned city in black and white. You see, I had lost my cat. I’d go out late at night calling for her in those early days. She was shy and frightened, and I knew I’d never find her in the daylight.
The photos seem sad. The urban decay mirrored my feeling of emptiness at losing my love.
I never found her.
Waterfront Property
Nine months later, I’m still photographing the city at night, and accepting that she is gone.
From my new home, I can hear the sound of trains in the distance. Even without my hearing aids, I can hear them through the open window in the summer.
I asked my art group where they passed, and began photographing them, too.
Tail End
I used to own a railway caboose, so my interest in trains goes back decades.
In the town where I used to live, I’d chase down the Hjørdis, a local sailing ship, photographing her as she sailed the Great Lake, and especially when she passed by our lighthouse, going in or out of the harbor. Now I try to catch the trains in a similar way. They are not passenger trains, so there isn’t a set schedule. That hunt only adds to the excitement, and makes each meeting more special. I keep a list of the engine numbers I encounter, and would like to express the trains in paint.
My ongoing science fiction serial has been my main focus lately, and once again, I had that feeling that the ideas and words were endless.
My creative interests take turns.
My lifelong practice of painting will step aside to make way for my determination to create pottery, or to bare my soul through the past fifty years of writing.
