I was inspired by the post, My True Muse, on Jason Glidewell's blog. After finding his true muse, he challenged his wife to do the same by picturing herself "in the midst of a painting splurge, when it's just going perfect." Closing her eyes, her imagination filled in an image of her muse.
I'd never thought about my muse before. What does the inspiration that comes from inside of me look like? I felt challenged to do this because I have a very familiar pack of critics that I invite. (Just to name a couple: Rob - 6'6", lanky, 60 years old, doesn't listen to what I have to say, doesn't take me seriously because I'm a woman. Al - short, tubby, never really looks at my work and always has the same thing to say, with a big politician smile, "Isn't that cute.")
I need to have someone to invite to the party when I need someone on my side - someone tough and daring who can fight these jerks.
Meet Amy Jett.
(I wrote this sort of stream-of-consciousness, without correcting or changing. Some of it doesn't make sense but I'm just getting to know her.)
My muse is Amy Jett, a 47 year-old rock 'n' roll chic who has a fascination with the sirens in old black and white movies.
She is extremely passionate and her main job is to encourage me to go for it. She makes it completely safe to experiment and try anything. She’s all about producing – making as many works of art as possible without stopping for hours at a time. To get me out of my comfort zone she'll ask me to do crazy things like paint in the nude or dress up like Blonde and make a music video.
She wears an original Aerosmith concert t-shirt. Her record collection is a museum of rock 'n' roll classics. She claims to have been to over 2000 concerts and at one time lived in a van with Iggy Pop.
She's 5'11" and flat chested. She's a redhead but has been known to dye it black for the right concert.
She drives a 1969 Ford Mustang.
She eats weird stuff like pizza without cheese or egg white omelets with nothing on them. The only vegetables she eats are mushrooms (fried or on a pizza), potatoes (French fried – she calls it manna), and peanut butter. She doesn’t drink soda – only water and coffee (which she calls the elixir of the gods).
She loves tequila, mostly after lunch. She loves cigars, mostly after dessert. When she's drunk you think she's sober and when she's sober you think she's drunk.
She loves poetry and writes it constantly. She has some of her more foundational verses inked on her back below a tat between her shoulder blades that says "HIS" in gothic print. Her muse is the guy in Klimt's painting, The Kiss. She admires the poetry of Prince, Mark Knopfler, and Norah Jones.
She sings all the time and plays the guitar and piano.
No one is sure where she lives because she never seems to go there. When she's not around, you think that she's gone home to sleep, shower and/or change clothes and then you find out she's at someone else's house jamming or reading poetry at The Garage.
Well, there she is. She makes me feel strong and couragous. I want to get use to having her around.