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Poop Murals and other Musings Why Betti only draws naked things and the gender of God revealed... Ah, art.
I take art really seriously. Unfortunately I am socially handicapped when it comes to “good” art. My tastes fall more on the lines of the erotic, the bizarre, the messy and macaroni and booger preschool creations.
To me, art is any type of personal creation. I had a close friend when I was a teenager who’s idea of creative self expression was wearing a white t-shirt while drinking coffee and then sloshing the scalding beverage all over himself... He could tell the type of day he was going to have by the coffee stain pattern. He would relish each shirt like, well, a work of art.
I’m not shitting you. Damn, do I miss him. God Bless J.B....
Speaking of God...
Did you know that in the book of Genesis, it says that “God created man in his own image”?
So does this mean that God has a dick? A vagina? Is the Great Creator a hermaphrodite? Hmm... Things you wonder as a freshman in Catholic high school. FYI, the nuns are not amused by these types of questions. I really wonder about this shit, though.
Which also brings me to the “spiritual” side of my art views. I think that creation, making something completely new out of something else is one of the most spiritual things that a mortal can do. If God is the ultimate creator and he made us in his own image than for a human to also create is the highest form of flattery to God. I think that God is really into flattery.
Duh. Maybe this is why I only like to make naked things.
My first nude was created at the age of three on the beach. I can’t explain the sheer joy of creating “privates” out of sand. So-Fucking-Fun. My mom should have taken this as a warning sign of future Betti creations to come.
I took advantage of ceramics class to vent my virginal teenage frustration in sculptures of antagonized women with no heads or legs, and couples coupling in what I now know as classic, er, “anal sex” positions. Yeah, the closet homosexual Catholic Dean was definitely interested in those. A decade later it has dawned on me that he wasn’t raising his eyebrows at the art exhibition out of distaste... Oh, contrair...
Later art and sex intertwined on a more physical level as my days and nights became blissful, foggy (literally) orgies of mind, music and medium in a little barn with a crazy-beautiful musician. We would spend our time loving, laughing and creating in the lantern light. Sigh. I was his muse, he was my muse. It’s easy to be amazing when your high.
Now that I don’t have the freedom to get blitzed out of my mind more than once every couple of years (hey, mommies don’t smoke weed), and I’m usually covered in some type of body fluid other than sweat and semen (i.e. poop, pee and spit-up) it’s a little harder to feel creative and amazing.
I still draw naked people when I have time and occasionally shape a kick-ass hippo out of playdo, but overall my creativity has once again morphed and is found primarily in food preparation, storytelling and the art of conversational bullshit (quite a skill).
I have this fantasy that when I’m forty I’ll be able to free my inner barefoot, wild haired, glassy-eyed hippie once again.
Until that time, I’m just a senorita in the tail end of her twenties relishing in the beauty of my two pups (kids)-- my greatest masterpieces.
Hey, come to think of it they came out naked too.
Do what inspires you...
Until next time,
Betti Mustang
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