Mulled Claret

Ingredients:

Dirk, paintbrush, acrylic, empty canvas, spray paint, basic art supplies, black journal, pen, inspiration, muse, and imagination, mind, heart, and soul

With some of the many ingredients to his character, Dirk parallels the essence of “mulled claret.” Or so he reminds me of mulled claret. Having two definitions, I look toward the second definition of mull: to ponder (over). Claret refers to red or white wine heated with various citrus fruits and spices. Sweetened by sugar and enriched by the spirit of brandy, a liquor distilled from wine and other fermented fruit juice, mulled claret takes form. Dirk is a mulled claret in its abstract definition. He ponders what is presented before him and takes it to a higher level. In exploring the essence of wine, Dirk transforms into an artist who takes painstaking measures to create. As wine is also meticulously made through the processes of harvesting, crushing, pressing, fermentation, maturing, and finishing, Dirk abides by the same creed.

Comparisons and parallels--fucking botheration. Artists tend to escape into a world untouched and untold. Bullshit. Artists live in a world of adaptation, imagination, and determination—the world of illusions and imitations, dreams and desires, frailties and absurdities. Of sane and insane, of beginnings and ends, of imitation and, but most especially, of creation and then destruction, whichever surfaces first.

Again, botheration. I must not succumb to that. The subject: Dirk—the ingredients of such a character. What makes him an oddity? Does he have an element of peculiarity? Is it because he’s an artist? What makes an artist? Is it because he can draw what he sees or is it because he truly sees what he draws? Or perhaps it’s what he doesn’t see? Is it to be blind among strangers overwhelmed with judgments? What is it to lose sight when you’re an artist? Does he lose his senses or does he lose his sense of faith? To lose faith, I know, is a great loss, but to gain it back is altogether something else. You can label me an artist because you think I may possess the image of one, but there are many images. I can qualify for an artist simply because I can paint in black and white and shades of grey the ambience of the skies. It is what I see. Yet strangely enough, I can also illustrate what I don’t see, like the blind amongst the company with and without sight, with and without insight. I can paint you a picture of love simply by the holding of hands. I can paint you a picture of self-prophecies through abstract art. Dirk can take you into his world as well as I can. I don’t live in his certain realm of abstraction. I don’t have tattoos on my body nor is my tongue pierced. We live in two different worlds, but we have one common thread that runs deep, infiltrating the veins of our blood and through the divinity of our souls. We are both in love and impassioned. We may or may not be labeled as artists, but the title is trivial. We know when we open our eyes and see. We see with the passion of our hearts, our minds, and our spirits. Being an artist doesn’t only mean you can draw, sing, or write. It’s not about having an image. Art gives me this feeling I can only pray won’t abandon me. I’m certain Dirk feels the same way. Art becomes our refuge. One thing I do know: with every breath, art gives meaning to life, and with every brush stroke, verse, or word, art gives meaning to my life.

He is one of the many different images of an artist. I am another. Dirk portrays many images of himself. Today, he reveals an enigmatic writer. I watch him write furiously into his black journal. What thoughts? I do not know. Then he looks up, and lights a cigarette. He hands me his journal. Already, I know I have intruded. I cannot disown this feeling of intrusion despite his permission. I begin to trespass into an unknown territory, his random and innermost thoughts, but it was like opening a present, uncovering the mystery, or sharing a secret. I realize I am in the company of an artist, damned or blessed—however fashion you perceive it—to fulfill one of many goals. Creation.

Forgive me once more. Expect it no longer. Botheration. Dirk writes of blindness. He unravels parts of himself. I feel compelled to put the pieces of the puzzle together, but I am reluctant to do so. I refuse to “figure him out” and even if I could, it would be disrespectful. I read the words he had written. Then I ask him, “You believe this?” He nods.

I keep reading. He kissed me on the shoulder. “If I could do it over, I wouldn’t even go near this.” His cigarette. He smiled and nuzzled my neck.

“Is it difficult? I think it’s all about the power of control, a matter of will and determination—two powerful ingredients.”

A smile. “It’s not about control. You don’t have control over anything. You think you do, but you don’t.”

I disagree. Of course I have control. I have a say in matters, especially when it’s my life. What I say and do matter. Of course I have control.

Again, his smile. A part of me is convinced that I am in control. But that smile. I ponder the question. Do I really have control?

Now I’m not so sure. I’m just like him: mulling over the questions that need to be answered, but only reaching more uncertainties and indefinite tendencies. Artists like to think highly of themselves, with a kind arrogance hidden behind masks of modesty and artificial gratefulness. Why not display great pride, passion, and love for something you bring to existence? For this reason alone, artists become a separate race. They are forgiven and pardoned more than anybody. They unleash their energy, push their limits, and experience a world—a life—without boundaries. And why not? Why not smile when they know they’ve conquered and remain undefeated? Why the hell not? Dirk does. He enters the world of art in love and impassioned, with that smile and those eyes, no matter the consequences, no matter the irresponsibility involved. Who wouldn’t forgive and pardon him?

He’s an artist.

"Let's fuck," he proposed, pulling me under him.

A smile.

Hell, of course he is.