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In this episode, we discuss where ideas come from. Is it an idea tree? A genie in a bottle? The guy named Frank who sits on the corner of Neil and 3rd, sipping Surge cola with a straw while wearing feathery boots?

Let’s explore where Frank, and many of the great artists out there discover their ideas. Welcome to the ArtWalk Podcast Episode #02, Solo Thoughts, Where Creative Ideas Come From.

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The morning sun sang back at the birds, and the hostel began to smell like cinnamon. Perhaps someone was making cookies downstairs. Perhaps it was a perfume that I was just not familiar with in this part of the world. I did not know the names of the two lovers sleeping in the single bed next to mine, nor had I met them yet. They had come in late last night waking me up briefly before my eyelids drew heavy again. I cannot remember if they truly made love, since it may have been a dream. The young man, maybe twenty-two, twenty-three, or even twenty-four years old, looked over to me, his head still on his pillow.

“Good morning.” He said with a thick Spanish accent. 

I nodded, “Morning.”  

“What is your name?”

“Ben,” I replied. “You?”

“Fernando,” He said while touching his bare chest, “It’s very nice to meet you Ben. This is Alma.” Fernando continued to lock eyes with me, completely focused on the present moment.

“Hello Alma,” she barely moved a muscle when I spoke to her. Alma rested her head on Fernando’s lap, glancing over to me, then back to the ceiling where the fan spun the room. The two went back to speaking in Spanish, a language I had not mastered. In fact, I could barely put a sentence together. I could not understand anything they were saying, and they probably knew it, as they spoke in a regular volume. From the looks of it, she seemed very depressed. He talked a lot.  

After cleaning up, I was ready to find a cafe. Madrid was a city full of buzzing energy. People think fast here, and speak faster in their native tongue. I imagine to understand them, but I do not. Not far from my hostel, I made my way down Plaza Tirso de Molina. Many of the buildings here boasted themselves with a rainbow of color, from blue to pink to yellow. Dogs stare down at you from their second floor balconies, noses punching through the iron fixings of the railing. You could sense them judging you because you were foreign. Not too far into my walk I found a small corner bakery. I claimed a barstool facing the barista, a well groomed, tall young man who carried around a stern, yet welcoming manner.

“Cafe por favor…y croissant, chocolate,” I said to the man behind the counter, as he nodded politely. 

Yesterday, I spent much of my time getting into the city, finding my hostel, and landing on my stiff, springy mattress. I was hungry, and needed caffeine quickly. The breeze came into the shop through the raised outdoor coverings carrying the scent of fresh bread from somewhere nearby. The croissant I was eating tasted decent, but I was truly looking forward to the French pastries during my travels. The freshly brewed coffee lifted me up quickly, and was pretty good drinking. A local newspaper sat next to me on the countertop. I felt like a child leafing through the pages, only looking at the pictures.

An older gentlemen, likely in his eighties, entered the cafe, and sat two stools down from me. He wore a faded salmon colored sweater with khakis, and dark leather loafers. He propped his walking cane against the bar below his seat, then removed his flat cap. He looked chock-full of experience, of wisdom. I get the sense that he is a good man that led a noble life. I am sure of it.

The barista placed a cappuccino in front of the man. The two simply exchanged a nod, leaving unnecessary words out of the occasion. I want that. The simple, yet perfect relationship between community, fellows, and time. No b******t. No frills. Just an understanding of each other. A congenial interaction of space dust that formed into that moment of joy for the man next to me, sipping his morning ritual.

“Adios. Gracias,” I said, laying some euros on the countertop. 

“Goodbye sir, have a great day,” the Spaniard replied in almost perfect English. 

I wanted the old man to look up at me. I wanted to see his full face. I wanted to remember him, forever. I wanted to steal the calming, yet commanding presence that he carried into the place, which had affected me. I yearned for his wisdom to become my own. He never looked. I had to find my own position here. I had to build my own sophistication.

I have three days here before I set out for Lisbon, and I want to see as much as I can. There is an awful lot to do. And there are a lot of strangers to meet.

*Copyright Aaron Massey - Steel Valley Productions, SVP, LLC

LISTEN to this podcast by clicking the play button above.

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Hello my friends! I’ve started a podcast. So cliche, I know. But, guess what? I don’t care. This is for the artists, the creatives, poets, musicians, filmmakers and actors, writers of the world, photogs and painters. All of them. And anyone else for that matter who wants a little more in-depth discussion around the creative community.

I will be hosting solo shows, and also interview shows with other artists in all kinds of creative fields. I think this will be a place to come and have fun, get some insight into the creative mind, and discover some super talented individuals through our talks.

I hope you enjoy. Here is Episode 01 of the ArtWalk Podcast.

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There is a feeling I get walking into an underground bar. The kind with a staircase that leads you down into the soft belly of earth. The kind with no windows, and dark, amber lighting. Jazz playing from the four-piece on a slightly raised stage. That’s a place. That’s a place I can sink my teeth into, and taste the history of it. The energy goes bop bop bop ba dum bop bop dabu dabu dabu dabu dum damn! Whiskey please!

I love encouraging the bartender with a compliment. Maybe he’ll give me a little extra on the pour, what do you say Sam? The music rides through my glass and I can see the waves of the B flat ripple along the circular surface of my ten year aged in oak. The beer is nice here, but the whiskey; lord have mercy.

She is wearing a black dress, tighter to the body, no loosey goosey stuff tonight. I can only pretend to have the words, the proper phraseology of genius men that would send her dark brown hair swinging left of her near perfect design of a face, lord have mercy, and locking her full attention to me standing behind her barstool. How many men have died here tonight? Right in the very spot I stand? I can feel the pools of blood beneath my shoes. Oh, my black leather shoes, soaked in death.

We danced, and she pulled me closer to her, a true sign I was in over my head. Gladly. The saxophone player ripped on some high notes, as the bass player slapped to hold the whole thing together. The chocolatey atmosphere gave off an energy that invigorated us, me, her. A kiss on the cheek was all she left me. Damn. Worth it.

Dreams can send a man into insanity, pushing the reality of his core to the brink. She was my dream. I’ll call her Vivian and remember her red lipstick still stuck to my face. Mental picture saved. The cracking of the broom off of the chairs tell the folks it is time to fly. Be gone you drunkards. Sam laughs at the one’s he overserved as he wipes down some highball glasses.

“Vivian! Where are you?!” The wet street echoes the footsteps that tap upon it, while the few cars left at this hour provide a shhhhhhwwwww sound, passing my raised hand. “Taxi! Vivian!” Either one come save me goddamnit. Three hours till dawn. Might as well run home. Seventeen blocks and all of my thoughts between these monstrous buildings all looking over my shoulder. And I’m off!

See you tomorrow whiskey man. Maybe I’ll be so lucky to get that drink, hear those tunes, have that dance, receive that kiss, and run underneath the stars. Goodnight sweet Viv, you did me in. I hope I remember your face in the morning, damnit I hope.

*Copyright Aaron Massey - Steel Valley Productions, SVP, LLC