Today, Sara and I visited the Van Gogh exhibit at the Art Institute of Chicago. It was a gray, cold, and misty day, but I wasn't too worried about that. Just seeing his work up close really helped me get back in touch with my creative roots.
The museum was packed with people clambering to see the exhibit. We were all like cattle being herded into, what seemed like, a small exhibit space, but once we got close enough to see his brush strokes, my eyes lit up.
All week I've been doing some art therapy with a sketch pad and colored pencils. My drawings aren't really much to write home about, but to me, they've meant the world. I even find myself dreaming about my drawings, and waking up in the middle of the night to finish drawings that I had started the night before. No drug in the world could make my emotions come to the forefront of my psyche like they have this past week. That's why going to see Van Gogh's work, my favorite artist, that much more meaningful.
I even forced myself to pick up a camera again. If you know me, then you know photography runs deep in my blood. Maybe my first time out shooting around downtown Chicago in awhile won't yield the best shots, (I shoot mostly film, so I've yet to develop and view my work), but just to aim my camera, and press the shutter was enough to make my blood warm.
So, this past week, with all the shit going on in my life right now, to be creative for the first time in a long time was a pure joy. Something I know I'll look back on, and be proud.
Pride in myself. A feeling not felt fully since my first seizure.