Van Gogh Syndrome

Won’t be long before artists become yet another diagnostic pickle for the next Diagnostic Statistical Manual (DSM). Apparently, Psychiatry has been feeding on Art for some time, which is hardly a surprise,

 But still …

I recently learned that when an artist focuses on a certain physical feature(s) this is no longer merely Art, but yet another diagnosis (DIssociative Identity something) through which Psychiatry de-humanizes the Creative Spirit into mere Pathology.  

Thus, as a writer and an artist, I feel compelled to help provide a palatable title for this diagnosis, and encourage the committee which sits around, thinking up ways to crush the Human Spirit until there is none left – Van Gogh Syndrome – for surely Van Gogh would more than meet the criteria essential to keep psychobabble alive and kicking!

I also humbly submit a few pieces to illustrate this pathology. 

 Eyes  

Eyes

  

And More Eyes 

Mother's Day Music: 2015

Too lazy to deal with pecking today, so I used pen and paper instead.
IMG_2699.JPG

Mother’s Day Music: 2015

Too lazy to deal with pecking today, so I used pen and paper instead.

IMG_2699.JPG

The Bipolarians

Could not remember, so I just asked a friend if I had told him about The Bipolarians.
I first discovered them living among us about a year ago. It was after a legal hearing for a Bipolarian. Three of us posed for a snapshot selfie, which is what I later used to introduce our world to The Bipolarians, by posting it on Facebook.
Their fathers are big on Education; theirs mothers, Art. This creates an unusual mix of chemicals. We’re not exactly sure what those chemicals are yet. But we sure would like to get our hands on the formula, wouldn’t we?
Then we can produce enhanced Bipolarians right here on Earth!
Wouldn’t that be exciting?
Anyway they are highly revered on their planet.
Unlike here.
Where the planet loves them. And Nature adores them for their spontaneity. –
But those from their own species do not.

Dylan in Baltimore (Part Two)

I couldn’t wait to get to the venue and people-watch. I knew this was going to be an interesting crowd.
It was past 7:30, and the show began at 8. The crowd outside was sparse but sufficient to draw a correlation between them and those who were already inside.
First of all, there were his peers who looked as one might have imagined they looked like: Men with silver pony tails, smokers, and punks – all wrapped into one – and extruded through the eyes of Time
They were truly a scary sight.
And then there were the women.
Those who may have been the Flower Children of that generation …
But who had sadly changed.
So that was the top tier.
Grandpas and Grandmas.
And then there were the ones (mostly men) who had actually lived lives Dylan’s own creative consciousness had manufactured earlier – when he was still a youth and a prophet. How sacrilege, someone might say. But this has nothing to do with religion – not that kind of stuff, but conditions we face as humans. Dark ones. Of the mind. Of the spirit. Of who and where are we in the grand scheme of Life. And what are the things we must face along the way? Which path to take? And those are the topics of prophets sometimes.
Must’ve been those Minnesota winters …

Burnout. How Long Does It Take?

Does anyone out there associate burnout with youth? Especially in the second decade of life?
We have numerous names on these lists. And the lists are long.
But has anyone ever thought about the process of burnout without having experienced it?
What if we looked at a broader group of artists, since musicians are easily the purveyors of substances that eventually kill them quickly in life and are disproportionately represented, unlike other artists?
Let’s think of just the process.
It’s rapid
It’s like a hurricane
Creativity is highly accelerated
What may seem unusual to others is simple for you.
You work at a rapid pace, absorbing and expressing lots of ideas, in multiple ways.
There is a strong element of chaos present. But it’s friendly. And amusing.
Every pore in your body becomes a tiny camera, which takes pictures of the world around you, and then sends them to your brain for editing.
Chores. Chores. Chores.
You’re nothing more than a servant to your Brain. Your Brain wants you to believe there is such a thing as free will, so it programs that as the Default Setting.
“Let us see …
What lunatic lurks here…”

More easy to manipulate that way.