I wonder whether bouts of depression occur when an artist’s soul goes into creativity’s womb to conceive an artistic expression. Dark, damp places of soul wrap around huddled form, smothering mind with doubts, obstructing hope from filtering through a mood so somber that it makes her flinch. Then in the chrysalis of creativity, she comes to the end of her human wrestling and cries out to her Creator, “Help me.”
While flailing limbs fold to cradle her form, something mystical manifests. Alone, silent, and open to change, ideas and images transform into artistic expressions in ways no words can explain.
Then the artist picks up her paintbrush and strokes honey-soaked magic across canvases dabbled with gloom. She creates the rays of sunlight she envisions bursting through stormy clouds. Fluorescent greens and aqua blues light the morning sky as the inside of her cocoon now splashes upon her new creation.
