Apr 28, 2010
Blood trickles in a single drop down my hand and drops to the floor. The involuntary recoil is over in an instant. The damage is done. The point of barbed wire removed as quickly as it entered. I smile, staring down at first blood. Inevitable. The tribute paid to muse for her gift. I knew from conception the medium would demand a toll in blood. It has wasted no time collecting its due.
My gloves sit on the ground next to my work area, as if mocking me for disrespecting the wire. I knew better from the start. There is no doubt the price will be high by the time the images in my head are finalized through the lens. A quick bath in rubbing alcohol and duct tape takes care of the puncture, and the gloves go on. No reason to hasten the abuse. Pain is not the objective, merely part of the process.
Miles of barbed wire sit in tightly wound coils outside my studio, waiting to be released. Smaller batches corrode in vats of chemicals, becoming what I’ve seen in my dreams and waking flashes of inspiration. Challenges beyond anything I can anticipate lay in wait. The lure, siren’s call, and nemesis in one. Wouldn’t have it any other way.
Barbed wire on the brain again. Angry. Brutal. Anguished. Tempermental. Perhaps a reflection of inner turmoil with nowhere to escape but in rusted metal and flesh. Something deeply personal infused in the imagery, unlike anything I’ve done before. A curse and a blessing, the torment inflicted by muse, desired or not.
I’ve held out as long as I can. Beyond all the tortured artist bullshit and wanker artspeak is a burning desire to create. I can’t make it go away. It’s noise in my head that gets louder and louder every day it’s ignored. It simply can’t be silenced until the imagery is captured through the lens. So it begins. . . until it is finally quiet again. . .
Cross-posted to deviantART.
Copyright 2010 by Adam Chilson