R E I K E N

19 June 2020 | On Inspiration and Life After Death

Hindsight is so easy; all the puzzle pieces fall into place. In hindsight, that is. But when you’re in the middle of a period of “I don’t know any more,” “It’s not working,” or “It’ll never amount to anything,” you’re momentarily blind to the bursts of inspiration the universe is sending your way.

The past weeks, I was in such a period. Dissatisfied. Insecure. Stewing in negative thoughts about myself as an artist and my work. Nothing new under the sun—every creative person goes through this every now and again. And deep down, I know: let it brew; the moment of inspiration will come. But that knowledge is buried beneath all the limiting thoughts that win out during such moods: I’m a failure; I never should’ve started this.

Then suddenly, within an hour, the mood flipped. We were driving through beautiful Portugal. I noticed how few animals are lying along the roadside here—no flattened hedgehogs, huddled cats, or torn foxes. I mentioned this to M. A little later—completely unrelated to my observation—M spontaneously pulled the camper to the side of the road. “A quick drawing exercise,” he said. “Look around and sketch something that reflects your mood right now.” I love it when he does playful things like this, and always wonder why I never think of it myself. Anyway.

Across the road, I saw a pile of pallets leaning precariously to the left but still stable, probably thanks to the forklift holding them up. That’s how I felt: like I was on the verge of falling, but with things around me still providing support and stability. On the building above the pallets, there was a sign with a Portuguese text. I didn’t understand it, but the word “reis” (journey in Dutch) was there—too beautiful to ignore. What a journey.

Pleased with my quick sketch, I returned to the camper. On the ground, I saw a plastic flower pot, flipped upside down and crushed flat. The holes at the bottom (now on top) formed a beautiful pattern. I quickly sketched the pot, took some photos, and thought about how odd it was that something broken, discarded, and useless could suddenly be so beautiful. [Edit: I used the inspiration of this drawing in It Will Come | 026]

Back at the camper, I shared this with M. I remembered that years ago, I had come up with the theme “roadkill” but had never done anything with it—documenting dead animals along the road. “Funny,” I remarked, “how I just noticed the lack of roadkill here, and now this ‘dead’ pot feels like the same thing.”

We got back in the camper to find a nice spot for lunch. Two right turns later, M wanted to turn left, and there it was: a dead pigeon on the road. “Huh?!” I exclaimed. We had just talked about how few dead animals we’d seen, and now, three turns later, here it was! Encouraged by M, I got out to take photos. A dead pigeon, but she was beautiful—the silvery-gray feathers, the bright red of flesh and blood at the wounds. Not a car but a cat had ended her life. The pigeon’s head and one wing lay a bit apart from the rest of her body.

When I was done, M pointed to the sidewalk across the street. There were oranges on the ground. I thought he meant we could eat them, but I told him they were far too rotten and crushed. M made a photo gesture with his hands. “Oh! How blind can I be?! More ‘dead’ things!” Looking at them with my artist’s eye, I saw the beauty—the colors, the shapes, even the sidewalk they lay on was stunning.

A new theme was born. My Muse and M had guided me there. Behind this theme lies a deep personal desire: to give something that’s finished, broken, discarded, dead, or useless one final life. A life after death. To show that this “death,” in whatever form, wasn’t in vain but can inspire me to create something that makes it, even in this form, worthwhile.

This is something I long for myself—to matter even after I’m gone. To have been valuable, to leave something behind, to know it wasn’t all for nothing. Onwards.