In the opening scene of the movie Camille Claudel, Camille digs through the mud of a Paris construction site to find clay for her sculpture. In a time when women were property, Camille was passionate about her art and committed to living her own way, a heretic. Be it her artistic blood or just bad genes, she spent the last thirty years of her life in a mental asylum, an archetype of the eccentric artist. To the end she was exacting, steadfast, and uncompromising.

There are times when I feel a kinship with Camille. My friends accuse me of the same uncompromising approach, and it’s true enough I suppose. I am driven. I run on faith. I live with passion. The down side is that I often don’t get along with my “playmates,” and intimidate the hell out of men. I am overcome with depression when forced to work at servile jobs. The result is that some parts of my life founder upon the shore, even as a hundred rainbow fish flash and reflect in the morning sun just a few yards from the sand.

There are days when I wish I could turn it all off, to rest for a while like those of gentle temperament who brave the menial with so much more courage. Is it possible to change our nature? Would the magic extinguish like a burst of sparks falling on the water? Surely it’s a sin to not use the gifts we’ve been given. Sin or not, mine won’t be turned off or even down. It burns in a white hot fire, spitting brilliant colors that dazzle even me. Is there any way to reconcile passion with the routine of life? I don’t know. But in the meantime you’ll find me alongside Camille, knee deep in mud and digging until my fingers bleed and there’s enough in the bucket to feed my soul for another day.

Copyright February, 1999