Insights | Liz Huston

February 24, 2018

Creativity and Prometheus

This morning I was reading about Greek mythology, when I was struck by the myth of Prometheus. I was already quite familiar with the story, but this time, it applied to the life of an artist. Allow me to explain.

The story of Prometheus is one of a mortal, a Titan, who challenged Zeus, the chief Olympian God.

There was a feast, where the mortals came to “settle the debts” with the Gods. Prometheus tricked Zeus with his offerings, and Zeus, in a word, fell for his trick. This enraged Zeus to such a great degree that Zeus took fire from the mortals.

Fire, itself, not only represents cooking and nourishment, but it is also a symbol of creativity, of passion.

Prometheus turned around and bravely stole the secret fire back from the Gods and gave it to humanity. Zeus was outraged! The punishments were severe. Zeus, in his rage, sent Pandora to live amongst the humans, unleashing all kinds of plagues and evil upon the humans.

(Side note: Pandora did not open her jar (some say it was a box) in order to deliberately unleash evil, she opened it out of curiosity. So similar to the story of Eve, eh? It is said that she closed the jar (or box) out of compassion, but in doing so, she left Hope sealed within. I could go on, but Pandora is not the reason for this particular entry…) As I was saying. Back to Prometheus.

Prometheus’ punishment was even more severe than that unleashed upon the humans. He was bound to Mount Caucasus, where a vulture (or eagle) was to come each morning and eat away at his liver, which would grow back again at night. This torture went on for years, until eventually Prometheus was freed by Hercules. Hercules shot and killed the bird which tormented Prometheus, freeing him once and for all from his torments.

I see a great parallel between the story of Prometheus and the artist – a reflection of the creative process itself.

There is, inevitably, a time (or many times) where an artist fears they have ‘used up’ all of their creative ideas. A time when they feel tired, spent, used up, and so certain that they will never again create anything meaningful or have the ability to express the deeper yearnings of their spirit, that they decide to give it all up. They vow to quit, to take up something much easier (like a corporate job) just to ease the pain of (the fear of) never being able to create again.

Then something miraculous happens. In the dark of that night, their liver ‘grows back again’. The artist suddenly arises with a new optimism, a heart full of energy and passion, and they return to the canvas (or to the page, or the camera) and begin creating once again.

As with Prometheus, however, the cycle continues. The birth of creativity is followed by its death, as the birth of Prometheus’ liver was followed by the painful destruction of it. Suddenly, a sense of regeneration, hope and creativity flourishes. This cycle continues until a force stronger than the doubts that pluck away at us (or our liver) free us from our chains.

What is that force? The spirit of a champion? True courage? Is it someone outside ourselves? Is it inside us, the bravest part of ourselves? Could it be our rock solid resolve to end the cycle of suffering over our artistic expressions…

I don’t know the answer to that, as I too suffer from many of those dark nights. But I find comfort in the story of Prometheus, and the idea that liberation from torment is indeed possible. So keep creating, even when it feels hard or impossible. Cultivate courage, like Hercules, to free yourself.

-Liz Huston
August 11, 2011

Afterword: It’s February 24, 2018, 7 years later. I just rediscovered it and wanted to share!

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February 4, 2018

On Support…

Is it hard to believe that your dreams are supported? Is it too far fetched to believe that when you lose faith in yourself, your path, that encouragement and support will arrive, gathering around like a warm blanket of comfort? Or maybe it arrives and unites to form a ladder, lifting you to a great height so that you can once more reach the thread of your vision and get back to creating?

There are times in life when it gets dark, no matter what your path, and it is hard to believe there is a benevolent universe there to help. Luckily, that is right when the support shows up – usually in the most unlikely of places.

My phases are cyclical, it seems. Times of inspiration, that fevered time of creation is seemingly always followed by periods of drought. The creative drought is one of the most painful times in an art life; that space between the created and the becoming a barren wasteland of hopelessness. I have been in one of those painful drought periods, where the ideas are not solid enough to grab onto, and the longing for them, exhausting.

I nearly gave up this morning. Reached the point where it felt that I could not drag my weary body into the shoppe for even one more day. All I wanted was a dedicated studio day, alone with my art, courting ideas, and of course complete with long walks in nature under this perfect Sunday blue sky. But I knew I could not give in to that longing – I had to rally and come in to work. The longing was winning though, and despondent and tearful, I laid on the couch not knowing what to do. That was when help arrived; he actually picked me up and drove me to work. Bless that man.

Once I got to the shoppe, I was immediately greeted by wonderful people; full of enthusiasm and spirit. I felt like the right decision had been made, and being here today was where I belonged.

I received a surprise box from the U.K. in the mail.
It was such a surprise, as I don’t know anyone there – at least, nobody who would send me an box. I opened it, and inside was a beautiful letter explaining it all – who it’s from, why these items were chosen, what they signify, and how they relate to my work and my little world. I’ve rarely felt so seen and so appreciated. It was incredibly thoughtful, and I’m still a bit awestruck that someone I met once a year and a half ago went to such great lengths. I held my breath as I read the letter, as I opened the gifts. I could feel the care and the earnestness and the appreciation for something I do day in and day out, sent with love across the Atlantic. Amazing.

A couple came in, the man out of nowhere bestowing quotes upon me.
“The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision.” -Helen Keller

“You’re an artist because you see more. With that comes the responsibility of communicating what it is you see.”

I had said nothing about my trying morning, the nagging doubts, nor of the confusing desert landscape in my heart. And yet, having said nothing, still the encouragement came.

Life is beautiful and strange and full of the most wonderous poetry. You just never know what will lead where, or what will fix what…
Perhaps the point is to just keep going.

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October 14, 2017

Day Three. Lentas, Crete.

Wednesday, October 4, 2017
(from my journals)

It is already morning. Not sleeping a lot here, which is unusual. I love to sleep! Watched the sun come up again from my bed. My sleepless nights are not out of melancholy or stress, or even from the romantic rendezvous. Deep down, I stay awake because I know my time here is short and want to take it all in – I really can’t get enough of this place. I love it so.

Why? Why do I love it so? There is not any one thing; it’s the combination of it all. It’s the moon, the sea, the land herself. It’s the ruins, the wind, the rocks, the herbs, the goats with the little bells around their necks, the lion shaped mountain standing guard, the elephant rock in the water. It’s the people, it’s the food, the history – it is everything. People talk of their spirit animals, this feels like my spirit land. How am I so connected to this place? I feel it in places within my being that I never even knew existed. As if this land opened up a new room in my soul.

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The wind is so strong this morning, I imagine it is carrying stories. I listen, but I cannot hear. How do I catch the stories? Yesterday, as I swam in the waters at the gorge, I laid on my back, relaxed deeply, and let the water carry me. It was quite effortless, the waves are so gentle. For once in my life, it was easy to let go. Ah, let go. Why are we so reluctant to let go? No matter the thing. So reluctant.

In the water yesterday, there were stories too. The beach is full of pebbles and rocks and as I laid on my back, ears submerged in the water, body relaxed and receptive, those rocks sounded like a thousand tiny voices.

I attempted to focus on one voice, but it is not possible. I am distracted by my mind, but it is the heart who has the ears to hear. My mind knows these sounds are only the motion of the ocean waves moving the rocks. My mind tells my heart to stop with this silly nonsense. But my heart is still listening intently, convinced there are messages for her.

The heart is clever and she wonders, “is it not the vocal chords that produce the sound of our voice with their vibration? Then is it not possible that it is the motion of the waves that gives voice to the ocean?”

My mind has lost patience with my heart.

I wanted to write about what happened today. There is so much to write! Everything has a deepening. My words feel softer, more purposeful.

We walked silently in a line up the hill to the ancient site. The Sanctuary of Asklepios, in Ancient Lebena, was a sanctuary of healing. He is the father of Hygeia, Goddess of Health, Cleanliness. What am I here to heal? What in my heart needs to be cleaned? I am faraway again, listening to something deep within that I cannot seem to really hear. Why am I so desperately wanting to hear a message?

We walk some more in silence. A tourist walks by me, says hello, and I break the silence by saying hello to him. I am disappointed in myself for that. Always so polite, Liz? This is a sacred, silent moment. Then I remember I had been trying so hard to hear something, and I heard something! Hello! I giggle. The sacred need not be boring. Lighten up, I tell myself.

We walk. Until now, I have only seen this path in the moonlight, as I excitedly walk to meet him. Him. I can’t think of him too much, I’ll get lost. I notice how pretty the path is in the day, though much less exciting. As I walk, I keep having this sense that I must think of something quite big and profound to ask for at the Sanctuary, but what? Wait. Am I to be listening or speaking?

I arrive at the sacred site. They give us instructions that I don’t hear because I’m thinking too loudly. I follow their lead and witness a bit of the mystery in expression. Memories surface. How is it that as a young girl I pretended at all the things I do now? When I was quite small, I remember practicing slow processionals on the long walkway to the porch. I was some kind of priestess, on my way somewhere important. I was 4, and suddenly it is one of my earliest memories. Am I having a life review? Where are these new memories coming from? Maybe I did have a secret room in my soul open. Another memory surfaces; I used to draw a woman, over and over and over again. Just one woman in the center of the page, wearing the most incredible clothing. I was 7 years old in this memory. She is remarkably similar to the woman I still make, in the center of the page. At 9, I pretended to be a shopkeeper, selling my drawings of the woman – until my little brother told me they weren’t very good (as little brothers are wont to do).

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Is it that life has a way of orchestrating itself so you are always at the right place and time gathering just the right knowledge in order to advance to the next place? Or is it that we are organizing it from within?

The memories stop. All is quiet in my mind, for once.

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In that timeless space, I make an offering at the Sanctuary and say a prayer.

My prayer is unique in that there are no words. All that thinking, all those words clouded around me as I proceeded up the hill to this place, and now my prayer is silent? It has never been silent. In this place, I pray to a feeling, a sensation of peace and knowing that lies beyond words. I take that feeling, picture everyone I love – there are so many of them! I love so much. I recall lovers, friends, family, strangers. All manner of people who have touched my heart in some way. There are those I loved once, and those I still do. There are streets, and houses I lived in and passed by. I wrap everything in this prayer of peace. It feels like a gift and a witnessing.

I hold everyone close in my heart.
And then I let it go.

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October 12, 2017

Day One. Lentas, Crete

It took me 26 hours, door to door, to get here, to this very spot. I traveled from Los Angeles to this small village of Lentas, with the elephant rock off the coast, the waters of the Libyan Sea lapping at its base. When I saw this place with my eyes, there was a resonance in my soul, for I had seen it months before, in a meditation (long before I knew of this trip or this place). I howled silently, a deep recognition in the center of my soul, which felt like descending into the depths of the mystery itself.

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I slept with the doors and the blinds open, tonight, falling asleep to the stars, and waking up with them too. The coastal winds are howling, carrying the voices of an ancient people. I do not yet know anything about the history of this place. I was called here, a sudden call to come on a women’s retreat, with only 3 weeks to plan. I may not intellectually know the history, but I feel it. I hear it. Though I have not seen any ruins, this must be a very ancient place.

Concerns of the world I left behind tug at me, they woke me at 3am. I feel I must work, but the sun has not yet risen. I gather my sketchbook and I draw, I contemplate. Do I know how not to work?

I contemplate my Tarot deck. There are 4 cards left in the major arcana I don’t yet understand; The Empress, The Emperor, The Devil, The Hierophant. In this land, I can more clearly see and feel. The Empress, Goddess of the land, she is the bountiful earth. She is generosity personified – she provides a good life for her people, long as they don’t take advantage or abuse the privilege by taking more than they need. She is powerful in and from love, not force. It is her great gift, this giving of life and sustenance.

At last I understand the Empress.

Something is awakening in me as I watch the sky illuminate, the sun is rising. I am in Crete!

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This is what it feels like to have enough. This is what it feels like to be content in the knowing that you are loved and provided for. I am crying now, the tears are washing away the words in my journal. I have never known such sustenance before. There is water, air, food, companionship, shelter. I would like to feel more of this when I return to my house. I very nearly said home, but right now, this is home. Being here in Crete I feel at home. The land welcomes me as if I have walked it thousands of times before.

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I know very little about the resort I am staying at, but looking around, I believe it was built by a good man. I see the fruits of labor from a man with a vision and resources, who used both wisely. I think that is the gift of the Emperor. A truly just and good Emperor has a vision, and builds it in the strongest way he can, in harmony with nature, yet also reinforced, knowing that storms do come.

I have never understood Him this way. How amazing that in the land of the Goddess, I can finally appreciate the God? I can finally see him and be grateful for his contributions. I am surprised by this revelation. I am not a man hater, but having been subjected to various forms of abuse at the hands of men who “loved me”, I lived my life in fear of men. Here, I do not feel that same way. Here, I appreciate Him, as much as I appreciate Her. The balance of the divine, where the masculine and feminine truly meet.

Is this because coming from a place so skewed to the force of the masculine, just by being in a land where She is still alive, there is no longer anything to fight for, there is only an integration of the two?

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Today I will gather with the women in ceremony and celebration, and there will be free time to explore the village in the afternoon and evening. I do not know what I am most excited for, the sisterhood or something greater? I feel as if I am stepping into a grand adventure of heart and soul. There is no script, only a sense that something big is about to happen. Am I up for the challenge? Already I am wondering how I can ever leave such a beautiful place. There are so many days ahead of me here, yet already I am lamenting my fate at having to leave. It would do me well to learn how to be here now. I have often felt the sensation of being in the wrong place and time – longing for something I could never name. Is the key in just accepting now? THIS now is easy to accept. It is beautiful and peaceful. I feel at home and full of life. But NOW is so transitory. You can’t catch it. Even as I wrote the word now, that now vanished and gave way to the next – and on it goes.

It is probably better I do not know the script, or if I do, that I do not remember it. I will be brave in the improvisation. I will do my best to recognize the gifts when they come and to not fear what comes next.

Thank you, Lentas, for calling me here. I remember you. I know you in my heart. I am so excited for what lies ahead.

~Liz Huston, from my Crete journals, Monday, October 2, 2017

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September 23, 2017

In the quiet, I came to know something

The shoppe has been busy today, but there was a moment of utter quiet. That moment brought an epiphany, which I quickly scribbled on a greeting card. I am presenting it faithfully here with very few changes to capture the essence of what I felt.

When there is space
(in our schedules, in our days, in our physical space, in our mind, in our hearts),
it will be filled with something.
(Maybe that’s why we keep ourselves so busy?)
Lucky for me, today’s moment revealed itself to me filled with something sublime.

In that quiet, empty space I wrote this.

22 September 2017

Inside, the music lends a refined ambience
thick with ethereal voices and angelic magic.

Outside, the hall is empty and quiet –
My thoughts are my own for a moment
I hear my name and dive in.

My eyes gaze upon
“Where You Meet Yourself’
and she stares back at me.

I marvel that it even exists at all.

I made it.
I remember the journey so well I could get lost in it.
Moving from the muscle memory of painting and making
and an entirely new feeling comes.

Suddenly I know;
I have been so fortunate…

The art life was a dream –
forgotten and remembered the way dreams are.

I took the long road on my way to becoming an artist, I joke.
But oh, I have been so fortunate…

It was Life itself that met me in the middle.
(early one morning, in soul crushing traffic)

Or was it the Eternal who met me in the middle
(and is there any difference?)

Who whispered, “art is the answer”?
Because I heard you.
I listened and made form,
I made a whole life from that moment,
only to return again and again to dialogue some more.

The dialogue with the eternal,
could there be anything more sublime?

I have been so fortunate to worship,
not at the feet of some abstract god,
but at the altar of life and mystery and soul.

The place where wisdom tempers fear,
where wounds give gifts.

I am so fortunate to know the way,
and even more fortunate to return bearing gifts to share.

Day after day I showed up and made the work.
but not alone. Never alone.
Always in the company of the Eternal.

WhereYouMeetYourself-LizHustonC

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July 26, 2017

Why are you sad?

These days I am having a hard time keeping my mind still. So many distractions, fears, worries, tweets – all striving for the seats in the front row of my mind. They are not the thoughts I want, but they are the usual suspects, and they are seemingly always there. And their message? GLOOM and DOOM, baby. Nothing but gloom and doom.

The ones I want? Those thoughts filled with hope, inspiration and love? They are always there too, though much quieter, and usually relegated to the background. Which is perhaps why meditation is so valuable, it just occurred to me. The constancy of love is always waiting patiently behind the fears and the worries. When we get quiet, that is when we can find the way to the quiet voices in the back. It is a sensitive but formidable force, love.

A friend recently asked me via text message, why I’m so sad. He said he’d only known me melancholy and wondered what I’m sad about. Why am I so sad? I have been struggling with the answer for days.

I admit. At first I was infuriated.
How dare he?

Then I felt ashamed.
How dare I?
How dare I infect this troubled world with my sadness.
That’s not the ‘legacy’ I want to leave behind. I don’t want people to remember me by how sad I was. Yes, I’m sensitive. I often cry and feel the weight of the world, like so many of us do…but I don’t want to be remembered that way.

Why am I so sad?
Maybe it’s because the world is broken and it hurts me to see so much suffering. Maybe it’s because I gave the bullies in my mind a front row seat so often that they are rooted there. Maybe it’s because there are bullies in charge and they want to destroy society. Maybe it’s because I still miss my husband. Maybe it’s just what I learned at a young age because of rape and abuse. Maybe I still have a medical condition (bipolar) that needs treatment. Maybe it’s habit. Maybe this friend pushes my buttons so much so that I have learned to just not be well around him so as to avoid the uncomfortable confrontation, and in the handful of times we have been in each other’s company, he has never seen me truly happy, only guarded.

Maybe it’s all of these things and none of these things.
I have a predisposition towards melancholy. I have a fondness for nostalgia. I feel out of place in this time and space. I’ve often longed for a time and place that may have never existed, but I can find it in my dreams, and that tends to come out in my art.

I think his question and my impulse to answer it suggests a power over the melancholy, the power and ability to choose thoughts from the back row, from the well of love instead of the loudest and brashest of voices. There is value in that, for sure. Choose your thoughts wisely, become aware of the stories you tell yourself. Someone (or somethings) are weaving the story of your life – it might as well be you.

So, would I choose melancholy? Sometimes, yeah, I would.
It’s comfortable, familiar and quite beautiful. There’s nothing wrong with that.

Sometimes I choose joy.

And sometimes (oftentimes), I feel like I have no choice at all.
This is all part of the life I am living.
I manage my sadness in many ways, and remembering that I can choose a slightly different voice is helpful. Sometimes.

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July 24, 2017

An open letter to the woman who broke my art

*I posted this back in January on a blog that I will discontinue. Reposting it here so as to save it when I deactivate the other one.*

January 22, 2017

It was a day truly unlike any other day.

We had both spent the morning marching in solidarity with our sisters and brothers for a cause we both feel important, The Women’s March. There were hundreds of thousands of people in Downtown LA, more than I have ever seen gathered in one place, at one time, for the same reason. The energy was palpable, heart centered and beautiful, and as we would all later learn, it spread around the world! It was a big day, energetically.

After marching for several hours, I decided to go and open my shoppe, which was conveniently located at the center of it all at 5th and Spring Streets in Downtown LA. The interaction with the first woman who came in to my shoppe was beautiful; we connected on a deep level and she stayed for quite a bit.

The next people to come in was a group of ladies, whom I believe you were with. Everyone was sparkling with this empowered and connected energy of the day, which was centered in goodness. Reveling in that good feeling, something outside caught your eye, you went to look out the window and accidentally knocked one of my most beloved pieces of art onto the floor, “Whatever You Love, You Are”.

I can still hear the shattering sound it made when it hit the ground. It was loud and sharp, like hitting a cymbal with an axe.

My heart paused and I truly couldn’t even bring myself to look.

What happened next was I guess the best any of us could have done. I don’t remember who turned it over to see the damage, but I held back my tears with as much strength as I could muster as I saw that yes, the antique frame was cracked and broken. The hard to find antique bubble glass, shattered. The print beneath the glass, badly scratched. I was surprised at how much that hurt me, inside.

I know it wasn’t personal, it was an accident. But my art means so much, I couldn’t articulate my thoughts into a coherent sentence. As a business owner, I should have had a “break it you buy it sign”. I did not. (I do now). Nothing has ever broken in these 4 years here. I had no plan for such an event.

What you did next is where my injury really lies, however. You were trying to make it good, I know this, but went about it in such a way as to actually cause more harm.

You told me, “That’s a print, so I know it can be replaced. Those frames, you can find more of them.”

I woke up this morning with those words burning in my mind. How wrong you were in those assumptions. The antique frame, sure, with some effort, can be replaced. It was, however, special and of sentimental value, which cannot be replaced.

The print, well, that was the very last in a small edition of 5 plus 2 artist proofs. The one you broke, that was the very last artist proof I had. So no, it is not “replaceable”. I have more integrity than that. I will not reprint an artist proof, as that is not the purpose of an artist proof. It is to proof the colors, the quality of the print, when making an edition. It’s not just an open window to make another print whenever I feel like it. I honor the numbers of my collections. I honor my collectors.

Basically what you did was try to tell me that my art wasn’t worth anything after your carelessness destroyed a piece of it. And I, stunned at the chasm between the hope and connection I felt minutes earlier and the shattered glass before me, knew that I could not respond eloquently.
So I said nothing.

Anything I would have said at that moment would have been filled with venom and truly not in the spirit of the day, nor in the spirit of who I am as a person. You did not offer to pay for your mistake. And I did not insist. I knew I could not insist. I had no established precedent or had a break-it-you-buy-it warning posted.

That is the first and last time I will respond like that. Were I to be exhibiting another artist’s work, even without a sign, I would have fought tooth and nail to get that artist payment for your carelessness. I’d have notified my insurance and even paid the deductible if I had to so my artist could be compensated.

I know this about myself. I fight for others whenever I see injustice. But when it comes to myself? That is a battle I’m not so good at, and oh, I am so ashamed to admit this. It’s easier for me to fight for someone else’s good, than it is my own. I never saw it so clearly. You taught me that. Thank you.

It’s not news to consider how hard it is for artists to place a dollar value on creations of the hands and heart. Nor how hard it is for artists to ask the price we know our work is worth. It’s even harder to find an audience capable and willing to pay those prices.

I did the work, poured my heart and soul into it. I then came up with a price, and after all these years, have found collectors to support the work at the prices I ask. They are not unreasonable prices, some have commented that they are rather low.

Just to break it down for you; I spent 3 months of my life creating the piece of art you broke. 3 months, plus a lifetime of learning. 3 months plus 4 years running my own gallery, working 80 hours a week, every week (sometimes much more) to make my art and to get it in front of the eyeballs who will appreciate it and support it.

Your carelessness broke the result of that effort, my chance to be compensated for the creation of that labor of love. And in that, you have taught me the true value of my work. So for that lesson, I suppose, I must also thank you. I now know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what my work is worth.

I am keeping the piece you broke, in my home, as a reminder of what the true value of what I do. In a way, I’m glad you didn’t offer to pay and that I didn’t insist. I feel that perhaps you didn’t value what I do enough to own it.

But I do.

Thank you for that very harsh lesson in worth. I hope that you have learned something from this as well. I hope you will be more careful and aware in the future, and maybe not be so diminishing of the value of another’s craft. I in turn, hope that I will do better at standing up for myself.

Look, things break. This is life. I accept that. And because I choose to live mythically, looking for symbols and meaning in life, I choose to make this a learning experience. When I say thank you for the lesson, I truly mean it.

Sometimes it’s really hard to see the things we need to learn, and we need bigger lesson example. I wish my art hadn’t broken, but such is life. Things break. The current flows on. The lessons get applied. And finally, to that first woman who stayed during the whole thing; the woman who guarded my shoppe when I had to take the broken glass to the trash can, who held me as I finally cried, who embodied the support and solidarity I felt earlier and desperately needed to see again in that vulnerable moment…Thank you.

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Category: Insights