I know not what love is, but I am getting closer to understanding art and why I do it.
There is no need for me to make art. It does nothing for my country. Which daily, drains down that little silver plate with the holes at the base of the tub.
It does nothing to help the starving tummies of the children who pass me by, as I am drawing. They ask me "Miss? You coul' draw?" and then to another "Come see dis bwoi. Da lady di draw. Ih di paint, ih di mek wa bracelet outta rubba band."
They chuckle, after staring me down for a little while, and then they walk on by.
It does nothing for them, maybe it does nothing for me. But that tiny exchange we shared. An actual human interaction, and exchange of emotions, a real thing in the constant click, whistle, ding and beep of the instagram, twitter, facebook, pinterest, gmail, google+, viber, iMessage world in which we live. It means everything.
It helps me survive another 'whine and kotch' competition, another 'fest' to celebrate something or other for that season. The dumb-down of a nation in crisis. Distraction by distraction keeps a nation occupied with their own demise.
Though I will never be acknowledged for my art here. Will always have to be passed over for every other Johnny-come lately 'oh I am an artist, I'm wild, I'm free. Look at me, oh look at me' artiste.
I will continue to write, to draw, to think, to have sleep move over for ideas.
I will never exhibit again. There is no point in it.
I will continue to flood the social media network streams with my little doodles. I will continue to think. I will continue to look inside. I will continue to make art to share with passers-by, and facebook friends and just because there is a visceral need.