Each shrine of my art is dedicated to the muse which is you. And each rung of my dreams spools and hinges on your existence. I only started to breathe real air when you stood still to breathe next to me-- perhaps the first to just stand there doing nothing, saying nothing, but just there … Continue reading My Love
He was born with the mind of an artist, but, through some trick of fate, was given no means to express it. Some would say along with a small shameful part of my mind, that he is like a child, playing pretend in a world long since gone and dead, and therefore, no use for … Continue reading He Has an Artist’s Mind
We all reach this point, I believe. No matter what point in your life you are, there's a sort of private, pathetic shame to being an artist. We don't invent the next medical miracle. We don't easily provide a huge house and car for our family, most of the time. And, most of us, rarely … Continue reading When You’re Ashamed to be a Writer (or any other kind of artist)
When did I stop believing in myself? Was it when I turned my head away-- it seems for just a moment-- from my main work, the little one who bears my eyes, to write? Was it when I looked away from the page and realized I'm not that far from where I started? Was it … Continue reading When Did I Stop Believing?
Author T.S. Lowe 