An Artist's Alchemy

This story was inspired by and has excerpted from the article Anatomy of Creativity at the Soul Food Cafe
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“This place is freezing,” Kendalyn muttered to herself. She pulled off her wet rain jacket and scarf as she marched across the living room of her small apartment.

“How could I have left this open?” A frigid wind blasted through the bottom of the window in her dining area. She quickly shut it and then fiddled with the thermostat next to her wall furnace. As the furnace kicked on, she grabbed a green flannel blanket draped over the back of her sofa. Wrapping it around herself, she yanked the first headpiece at hand from the wall hook next to the door-- a big floppy sun hat. She knew she looked ridiculous, but the blanket and hat would keep her warm until the apartment heated up.

She considered going to the Bellowing Cow Saloon, just down the block from her building. The manager usually had a fire going, but the thought of spending an evening with the miscreants and malcontents that hung out there just turned her stomach.

Kendalyn had started going to the pub a few months ago when she discovered that it was a place where a number of local artists gathered. She just wanted to be with some like-minded creatives to “talk shop” and generally have a good time. It was good at first, but over the months she found herself spending more and more time there instead of working in her studio. Even worse, the interactions with the artists had devolved from professional talk to nasty gossip and strife.

The kicker came just a few days ago when a business disagreement arose between one of the artists and the owners of the Scarlet Shrike gallery. A lot of foul language and accusations had been exchanged between them, and many of the other artists, including Kendalyn, were set upon as well for just being present and voicing an opinion on the behavior of the individuals.

Stung by the assault on her personal reputation by the individuals involved, Kendalyn left the Bellowing Cow that night and swore she would never set foot in there again. She would rather freeze in her apartment than go anywhere near that pub.

Just thinking about the last horrible encounter there made her queasy. She should have known better and not tried to be the voice of reason. She padded into the kitchen to get something to settle her stomach. As she poured some ginger ale into a glass, she heard a soft thud from her studio which was adjacent to the kitchen. She peered through the doorway of the studio and froze in alarm. The studio window was opened about six inches at the bottom, just like the window in the dining room.

Kendalyn knew she had shut and locked that window before she left for work that morning. Her eyes darted around the room looking for an intruder. There was no place anyone could hide in the cramped, small room and the closet was too full of boxes of art supplies to conceal a person.

Then her eyes settled on her work table. “What--?”

Situated in the center of the table among her brushes and tubes of paint was a small wooden box. She cautiously approached the table to get a better look. Then she saw the intricate carving on the lid of the box: a familiar crest of leaves and curlicues entwined around the letters, “S.R.”.

Kendalyn relaxed and smiled. S.R.: Sibyl Riversleigh. Artist, writer, global traveler, and Kendalyn’s friend. There was no point in wondering how the box came to be on her studio table. That was Sibyl’s way and Sibyl was, well, magical.

Kendalyn lifted the box’s lid. In it was an envelope inscribed with “Kendalyn J. Pelican” in Sibyl’s flourished handwriting. Underneath the envelope was a silver rectangular case nestled in the red velvet lining of the wooden box. Kendalyn slipped open the flap of the envelope and pulled out a letter.

“Kenda, darling,

Aren’t you the mess! What has happened to you, dear? You are not the woman I used to know. I think you need a little transforming and I have just the thing for you. I was in Venice this summer -- oh, you wouldn’t believe what happened to me there -- but that story is for another day -- Anyhow, I was in an antique shop near the Ponte di Rialto and found a book which I was told had belonged to an alchemist. There were oodles of formulae in it, but this one just stood out -- just for you, I knew. I want you to take these words to heart:

‘Carefully mix 300 pounds of daily writing; pray to the creative spirit under the moon; purify your house with the right amount of sage; add twenty five ounces of the divine; spend hours in silence; stir in a pinch of imagination; meditate upon a mandala; daydream a lot.’

Now open the silver case.

Hug, hug, kiss, kiss, and get off your arse, dear.

Love,

Sibyl

Kendalyn sat down at the table and read the letter again. Sybil had always been there with good advice. Kendalyn reflected on the last few months. It was more than just hanging out with the wrong crowd and not working. It was neglecting the inner world that fueled her work.

Kendalyn set aside the letter and opened the silver case. It was a mirror. Just an ordinary make-up kit compact mirror. She placed the open case on the table and sat back to consider it. Nothing happened. It was just her, wrapped in a blanket and wearing a goofy hat, looking back from the mirror. She began fingering one of the paint brushes on the table as she pondered the alchemist formula.

It was like a recipe, or a spell. No, it was more like a ritual or a liturgy. She realized then that whatever art she created lately, or words she wrote, were not coming from that sacred space within. They were mundane, or worse: mechanical and dull. There was no magic in her creations.

Kendalyn closed her eyes and looked inward for the muse that used to live there. Was the duende spirit still there? Or had she been totally abandoned.

“Um... hello? Are you there? Look, I know it’s been a while and I know I totally screwed up by not talking to you lately, but I’m wondering if you and I.... what I’m trying to say is that I need your help. I need to move back to that place... you know the place I’m talking about, right? That place where you and I click and really cool stuff happens. Well, anyway, I’m here if you want to talk to me.”

Kendalyn sat for a moment, waiting for... well, anything. Just as she was beginning to feel very silly about having a conversation with thin air, she heard a tinkling sound, like a strum of chimes. Her eyes flew open and she saw herself in the mirror with a trail of glittering stars swirling about her.

She smiled. Everything had suddenly changed.

ljgloyd © 2012