–a treacherous path of promises and insincerity

NOT because you live in a yard, you understand all the herbs, botanicals, and insects that dwell therein. Sometimes sounds and scents you term innocent are potent to situations that, had you known, you might have been able to save a life or two, if only they had listened and heeded the advice not to touch or taste, inhale or hold sacred, out of curiosity or temptation. To do a most recent article, it took me into the audience of the Main Street Gallery. There were colleagues I haven’t had a confidential conversation with for going on decades, which would not be an exaggeration. The world of ‘The Arts’ is much more complicated than apparent. We are just out of the ‘COVID’ pandemic, which I told the colleagues I was with was a chemical and biological warfare imposition, much like HIV-AIDS.

I reflected on two talents that I was sure passed as a result of AIDS, because, from the ‘80s to the ‘90s, the two plagues that descended on Guyana were AIDS and Cocaine. The conversation with these fellow artists drifted into the bizarre, with what they related in respect to the three discussed colleagues of ours, whose exceptional contributions I had brought up. These three artists in particular had raised and directed a strange line of questioning back then, which, when ended, was still unclear to me what they wanted me to respond to. And even though I had tried to get to the core of their indirect questionings, all I’d succeeded in doing was getting into a heated argument, especially with two of my colleagues who have since passed.

The still living member of the three, my current colleagues assured me, was now struggling with what the morbid topic of this shaded, sad, and disturbing conversation was all about.
The heated conversations with the two now deceased colleagues had occurred around 2002. I had just published the first of a two-part folkloric comic book named, ‘Legend of the Silk Cotton Tree’ (Never got to publish the conclusion issue). These two artists wanted to know how I had developed the spirit bound in the tree, and the concept as a whole. I argued that I had digested childhood family stories. We had spoken for a while about means of penetrating transcendent inspiration and other related out-of-the-ordinary stuff. I assured them that though I didn’t dispute the boasts and writings of sages, occultists, and pulp fiction mystics, I wouldn’t be the candidate for an experiment of that kind of uncharted territory towards finding out whether it constituted reality or was just harmless beliefs. Because, I had once stood next to a neighbour on ‘The Range’ in West Ruimveldt during a drumming session in the small pasture next to it, and he’d begun dancing with unusual body movements.

Yes! There are things we aren’t sure of, nor have explanations for, with too little information on what, how, and the in-depth nature of such processes, like what controls what, and the consequences thereof! And I have some eyewitness experiences that have registered caution of the three per cent that may have undefined clarifications, like what in a drumbeat can entrance someone. This is similar to what happened to a Department of Culture dancer decades ago on a visit to Latin America, who was so mesmerised by the rhythmic drumming of some Mexican drummers, it took every effort of the very drummers to get her out of it.

However, the thing about my artist buddies that I’m referring to revolves around an experiment that a patron is said to have done in hosting them towards encouraging higher expression of their skills. The artists were encouraged, in isolation, to use narcotics towards arousing a creative aphrodisiac out-of-the-world visionary experience. I believe that it’s impossible to achieve this; creativity cannot be spiked by substances. Inspiration comes from environment, and an inner ability to interpret symbolisms and expressions that others may not observe. True, there may be something else at work with creative souls in diverse fields; but it is attached to these individuals, and it isn’t narcotics.

This reminded me of the talented Haitian artist, Jean-Michel Basquiat, who is said to have been encouraged to use narcotics to expand his creativity. He died in his Art Studio in 1988 at the tender age of 27, an age that mysteriously links him to too many talents in the USA who have passed at around that same age; from an overdose of heroin. A movie was made with a top-level cast; a movie that local artists should see. In 2017, one of his paintings was auctioned for $110.5 million. I came to realise only a month ago, what my deceased colleagues were hinting at back in 2002, but they and the patron were all mistaken about me. But otherwise, so I also think.