Sensory Memory

Continuing to think about the kind of subjects that inspire me, and reminded of this painting by Julie Ford Oliver's post last week, featuring a painting of lilacs in front of a window, I was reminded of this old watercolor of mine.

It's probably 14 or 15 years old, but I can yet recall the excitement I felt when my husband and I drove past the abandoned house in Pinos Altos, the lilac bush burdened and drooping with heavy blooms. The lilac smell was overpowering, whisking me back to childhood, when my sister and I carried armloads of lilacs to our teachers in the spring.

This made me aware of another piece of the inspiration/creativity puzzle:  sensory memory. It's all stored in the noodle somewhere. A smell can grab you and shake you and transport you across years in a nanosecond. Likewise, for me, colors and sounds. If you know how an old song can make you smile or cry, a whiff of perfume remind you of someone long lost, you know what I mean.

Artists keep these sensory memories cooking, drawing on them for an emotional kick-start to inspiration. It doesn't matter whether the memories are happy or sad, it's the chemistry that gets me moving to create. That's probably the reason I often question whether resolving old griefs would affect my ability to be creative. This is an issue that has troubled many creative people through the centuries. But for now, I know I can depend on the old sensory memories to provide inspiration for a lot of new creations.