Last night’s dream found me in a dismal post-apocalyptic world. We, the lucky survivors, were forced to live in dreary, primitive bunkers. Safe and provided for, but my soul was unhappy. Finally, I was able to voice my displeasure:

“I miss clothes! I miss color! I just want to dance!”

This morning I realized that’s why I put myself through all the pain of trying to make it as an artist. Even in the most dire circumstances, I just have to be an artist. I just can’t NOT be an artist!

When work has me down, I sing and joke for customers. When I’m feeling aggravated and at the end of my rope, my first impulse is to turn out the music and start to move. When I’m left to my own devices, I paint the only canvas I can find (okay, my nails).

That must be why people drew on cave walls. Why starving civilizations danced to the Gods for rain. Why beautiful memorials follow a tragedy. Some of us just can’t help being who we are inside: Artists.

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