They say that poetry is born of insecurity. And art is born from madness. I have found myself wondering to what extent we as artists crave a madness as much as scientists crave brilliance. We trust in madness as a source of inspiration. And so we find solace in our quirks and abnormalities, because the more we go mad the more we feel invigorated to create.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s in superficial haste. But actually, I believe in it wholeheartedly. And here’s why: I once read a quote in a book that stated, “He felt so light, like he could run across rooftops made of rice paper.” I found a deep attachment to this thought.
I think I’ve always craved madness and abnormality. I find this need to barge on a path uncharted and question everything placed before me. But this thought -- this lightness like running through rooftops made of rice paper -- it pieces it together for me. It justifies the reason I love to deviate from the normal. The reason I let my mind run rampant with questioning. The reason I am inspired by solitude. The reason I find solace in melancholy. It’s all due to the sensation of lightness it gives me. And that lightness manifests into inspiration.
Let me explain myself. I remember this feeling of lightness (like running through rooftops made of rice paper) clearly at a time when I was living on a kibbutz of dancers in Israel. The whole place was teeming with inspiration. There were five beautiful and huge dance studios, some of the most talented and artistic dancers from all over the world, and the most blissful contrast of threatening winds and sunny skies. Most days were happily spent exploring choreography and movement, then eating dinners and drinking wine with all of the inspirational dancers. You’d think that this would be the height of my inspiration and lightness. However, once in awhile I would go through a burst of melancholy unpalatable by anything but solitude. It involved emotionally creating in the studio on my own or sitting silently in the cafe drawing cryptic drawings and writing existentialist thoughts. But I never felt miserable in this melancholy. In fact, it’s maybe some of the most precious time I had there.
It’s because this melancholy is the root of lightness. It means finding an ethereal weightlessness from sadness. A sadness necessary to make me so totally impassioned in movement and in writing and in art. What I’m saying is: at the heart of inspiration is melancholy and hollowness.
Think about it this way. Maybe you’ve experienced being at the top of a beautiful mountain overlooking a dreamy view. The wind is crashing on your face, and you are drinking in the world around you in a blissful solitude. The sense of cold, the sense of vast surrounding beauty, and the sense of clarity of thought and endless possibility all contributes to a feeling of being weightless. The world is yours and it’s both terrifying and enlightening. It makes you feel hollow -- there is so much out there to fill you up. And now you can understand me --understand this beautiful, hollow melancholy that is the peak of inspiration and wonder.
I guess what I’m saying is that this inspiration is what I feel in my love of solitude and madness. A love of shutting the world out and reflecting. A love of feeling melancholy and hollow. But instead of melancholy due to external surroundings, it is a weightlessness that comes from within. And that’s why it’s deemed “madness.” It’s normal to be on a mountain or at a peak of adventure and question your entire reason of being. But what makes me an artist is that I find that sensation from within. I’m in the studio dancing with such a flow and lightness that I feel the impact of the entire world around me -- as though I am standing on a mountain staring out at it. I’m writing in my notebook and overwhelm myself with melancholy from thinking about all that’s left to discover in the world. I am drawing and pouring my soul into the paper leaving me empty and hollow.
And so I thrive on this hollowness. And maybe that makes me mad. And maybe that madness makes me an artist. I don’t know. But I do know that I’ll never let go of this wondrous sensation -- a sensation of running across rooftops made of rice paper.
