The song of the Happy Artist

I’m a Happy Artist


You will not find me all angsty, sitting in a chilly garret

Or starving amongst unsold paintings

Unrecognised, misunderstood and tormented.

No thanks.


That’s not for me!
No drawing on my pain to make my work

(OK maybe a little of that, sometimes)

…but I can make beauty from my happiness, too,

and from sheer frivolity, and

the everyday joy simply of being alive.


I’m a Happy Artist

Doom-loving media likes the tragic tales,

The forsaken,

The early-to-their graves

The stories with the bleakest endings –

Mentally anguished, abused, falling apart into a pool of paint

(It really ups the resale value,

especially after suicide or accidental overdose

especially at such-an-early-age)


It’s so seductive, all that sadness.


The other stories don’t get told


(So boring, all that contentment)


So we think that’s all there is

Art must dwell in pain and darkness.


Not for this artist


A long, and happy, and creative life for me please,

With dancing under stars, and climbing trees,

And tramping muddy paths in pouring rain

– and warm baths, and tea and biscuits after.


I am a Happy Artist.



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