Bad coffee and a cool cat

A few weeks ago, an Englishman musician reached out for me to write a bio. It sounded exciting. I got all worked up and prepped, and then I didn't hear back. 

Annoyed, I had made three attempts for an interview, and I felt ignored. Two of the appointments he had either "worked" or "slept" through. I was starting to feel I was a character on the Catfish television show. 

But, I had left a voicemail, and the Englishman on the voicemail was him. But, the voicemail was full, so that was troubling.  

It was a lot harder to think about being inspired to write someone's bio when you are not feeling like your time matters.

But, what I realized was that I was lumping this experience in with other poor creative experiences. 

I was burned out.

I lost my why.

About a year ago, a musician I adore asked if he "Could just have a file of all of the photos I've taken of him for the last five years." He said, "Don't you just have a file?"

Something about that question stole a part of my soul. 

And, another creative giant asked me to un-send a photo birthday card, and well, at that point, I was done. 

It took just a few words to make me grab my knees and think about ditching photography forever. 

I felt invisible.

Over time, I lost my why.

So, I did what every artist does, pout and run away from crafting.

I got busy. 

Being an artist can feel like a cold clothesline.

I re-enrolled in university classes and dove into studying for a state exam that was a year away. I am not kidding.

Then, I got the text. Bio dude is available now. Of course. 

I waited until I had just a few minutes to make the call. Creatively, I was feeling nothing.

I got the English dude on the phone. Every word he said was funny. And, it took me a while not to think that Hugh Grant was actually on the phone.

And, I then peeked out of my stubborn shell. 

Wallowing in the gulf of artist return and words like decomposing "creative bank accounts" (Julia Cameron), I set up an interview time for the next day. 

I drove across town, and to my surprise, I didn't get lost.

I rang the doorbell. A fat cat was at my ankles. The cat dawdled there. He couldn’t decide whether to go forward or stay put. I could relate. 

I let the cat stay outside next to the wilting plants giving up on the patio bench.

Two dogs greeted me. One dog bolted upstairs- -the other piled on the love like I had peanut butter in my pocket.  I thought isn't that like the world of an artist? You're either loved or forgotten.

I walked through the living room which looked like it was set up for nothing more than constant comfy jam sessions.

The sliding glass door allowed for the friendly black dog to gaze outside. His silhouette glowed in the summer sun. 

The wooden table in the kitchen was a great place for interviewing. I was offered coffee or tea. I figured since he's English, I'd get tea, but I settled for coffee. 

He said, "I found some chunky hemp milk. . . seems to be okay." I thought he doesn't have it all together either. It made me laugh.

He asked, "In case this doesn't go well, are there any last words?"

Art doesn't have to be explained.

True to every interview, thousands in the last twenty years, the questions come intuitively as sweet whispers leading me to what's next. I found that the story, was in fact, writing itself. 

We talked about England. We talked about Austin. We talked about family. And, we talked about friends that become family.

I thought that I'd been serving artists for years, writing their stories, and taking their photos to lift them up. And, sometimes, it gets a bit like I feel taken advantage of. 

I am always there, but then, I am always there. I often put their needs far above my own. I celebrate their adventures. But, then, I end up forgetting mine.

The Englishman said one person's art isn't any more important than another person's art.

"You are an artist too. Your work is equal to mine." 

That was a bit hard to hear, actually. 

I was reminded that artists paid each other in fine ways. It could be words. It could be hearing the words you didn't know you needed to hear. Creative bank accounts come in all sizes and shapes.

And, the dark truth is that artists can also hurt other artists by taking their time and talents for granted.

It took a while to marinate. 

On the way to lunch, I laughed about the irony of the wilting plants next to the open and full bottle of water. Sometimes what we need is not too far away.

We took a moment to water the plants. 

The Englishman opened up about his former thoughts of ending his own life, and he highlighted how his artist friends lifted him out.  

And, beyond that journey, his story unfolded to produce the most honest record he's ever painted.

The vulnerability part was not easy. As an artist, he said, you really have to put yourself on the line. 

And, I thought that line can get really cold and lonely sometimes.  But, the Englishman said it was the only way to go. 

I was not sure I was there yet, but I did take a few of the bricks down from the wall I was building.

I realized I don't have to paint with photos if I need a break. I don't have to give away my work either. 

My validation does not come from another's words or lack of appreciation. 

The interview wrapped up. I knew I would be paid for my writing. 

But, I realized that my creative bank account had just been filled with more than coins could spend.

The Englishman apologized for missing our first two interview appointments. 

And, when he reminded me I wasn't invisible, I believed him.

I drove off hoping the plants would perk up. 

Disco tree.