the man who wrote danny boy

This small painting almost got abandoned in the early stages. I'm trying to get a grip on depicting winter scenes but the learning curve is steep, and the previous painting was eventually tossed aside in fury and disgust.

While mulling over a non-art-related problem today it occurred to me that people who are driven to create are often blessed/cursed with a kind of built-in hypersensitivity. It would be great if it could be turned on and off like a tap: on when needed, like while tackling a design problem, then off when it can be more of a burden than a blessing, like in interpersonal relationships. But when you see the whites whiter than most people, and the blacks blacker (metaphorically speaking), a disconnect is bound to happen.

The artist/writer/composer wants something different from most people (see below), creating an even wider gulf. The mad artist is a well-worn cliche, but it doesn't exist in a vacuum. I've seen nuggets of truth in it in a couple of instances. One of my favourite songs explores the fine line betwen inspiration and madness using the classic metaphor of selling one's soul to the devil. And he does it to such sweet music (his palette) that it really needs to be listened to, not just read:

The Man Who Wrote Danny Boy

It happened one night
At three in the morning
The devil appeared in my studio room
And he said I'm your pal
And I'll make you a deal
Blow away all your struggle
And take your soul for a toy

After rubbing my eyes
I looked all around me
At the half-finished drivel I'd worked on for days
And I told him my dream
Was to live for all time
In some perfect refrain
Like the man who wrote Danny Boy

And I said if you're real, then I'll ask you a question
While most of us turn into ashes or dust
Just you and that other guy go on forever
But who writes the history
And who do I trust?

He gave me a wink
And he said it was funny
How mortals would pour all their blood, sweat and tears
Onto tape, onto paper
Or into the air
To be lost and forgotten
Outside of his kind employ

Then I thought I could hear a great sound in the distance
Of whiskey-soaked singing
And laughter and cheers
And they're saying, that song could bring tears to a glass eye
So pass me the papers, I'll sign them in blood
And the smell of the brimstone was turned into greasepaint
And the roar of the crowd like the furies of hell
And I hear the applause and I hear the bells ringing
And the sound of a woman's voice from the next room

Saying come to me now
Come lay down beside me
Whatever you're doing you're too gone to see
You can't hold onto shadows, no more than to years
So be glad for the pleasures
We're young enough to enjoy

So maybe I'm drunk
Or maybe a liar
Or maybe we're all living inside a dream
You can say what you like
When I'm gone, then you'll see
I'll be down in the dark
Down underground
With Shakespeare and Bach
And the man who wrote Danny Boy

Joe Jackson 1994