It's simple. An artist must live to be successful. 

Van Gogh was alive when he painted. Had Van Gogh not shot himself there was a good chance he would have experienced financial success and artistic recognition in his lifetime. And he may also have completed even greater works of art. 

As best we can, live a good healthy life. Drugs, alcoholism and mental illness do not help us. They kill us. You may try to argue there have been many artists who were all three above. But that is not a valid argument. There is no proof their drug addiction, alcoholism and mental illness increased or extended their artistry. In fact, there is a good case against it. Had they lived a healthier life, they would have lived longer and perhaps created an even greater body of work. I do not believe drugs, alcohol or mental illness would have helped Shakespeare. It is because he was such a clear thinker that we admire his work. "It is not in the stars but in ourselves that we are underlings." 

Living also requires living. Why not explore the world? Why not study ants, explore your neighborhood, go to unfamiliar places, examine your enemies? Why not try something new each day? Why not live life to the fullest? Treat your friends and neighbors well. Treat yourself well. Treat your body and mind well. Why not do something you have never done before? When you meet someone new, instead of telling them who you are, ask them who are they? Why not show interest in what they are doing with their life? Their story may open your mind. 

For example, I am on a horse ranch. One of my best friend's mother died. He did not talk too much about her other than saying how much he cared for her. But last night, after he returned from her burial, Bob spoke softly. He told me how, "She accepted everyone in her home. She even accepted you." I didn't completely know how to accept that but I did know he loved his mother's willingness to accept his choice of friends. In certain cultures that is a great act of courage. He continued to tell me that when he heard she was near death, he drove through severe weather to his sister's place to be with her. When his mother was told he arrived safely, she died. 

"She was the greatest person on earth." 

I thought of my mother. I have the same feelings for her. She had always been self-sacrificing. How many others feel the same? Perhaps, in mind we are not alone. 

Bob continued, "She waited until she knew I was safe, then she died. My mother was always there for me." 

When it came time to bury her ashes, Bob said his oldest sister told him to dig the grave. 

"Why?" he asked her, quizzically, "Aren't you going to help?" 

"You're her only son." She said. "It's your job," then she walked away. 

Bob chuckled in the memory as he sat on the ranch couch, "When my sister dies, I'm going to have my other sisters dig her grave." He played with his pipe a moment, before he stuffed it full of tobacco. "You don't know what it's like to bury your mother." 

Unfortunately, I did not let him get away with that. "Yes I do," I said emphatically. "I buried my father. I held his hand when he died." 

"No!" Bob took a breath of fresh air. He paused a millisecond and then said pensively, "It's not the same. She gave me birth. Brought me into this world." Then, he wiped tears from his eyes. "On her grave is DEAR HEART. Every time she answered the phone, no matter who called, she always said, 'Hello dear heart." 

I could see he remembered the quality and intonations of her voice. He repeated it, sincerely, as if she were saying it, "Dear heart."

Life. All life is but for a fragile moment. It is up to the artist to frame it in such a way that it slaps us in the face and awakens us to its splendor. 

Copyright 21 April 2004 Roy Ayers Baxter, Jr. All rights reserved. Any duplication of any kind in not permitted under law without the permission of the copyright owner.