Creativity is an inherent force behind the image of the visual artist. It is a mysterious gift that can either be a beautiful blessing or an unrelenting burden, depending upon the temperament, talent, and even fate of the artist. At its best, creativity can provide the inspiration for works of unspeakable beauty that can touch the hearts of humans and gods alike. At its worst, unmanifest creativity can lead to a life of depression, madness, or even addiction as the artist struggles to find a way to consistently connect with the divine source of their inspiration. Artists who are fortunate enough to find a way to work in harmony with this unseen force are likely to gain recognition for the originality of their work, which can lead to acceptance from their community and even notoriety from a larger circle. Yet no matter how popular an artist becomes, most still find it necessary to retreat at times from the spotlight, to a place of solitude where they can reconnect with the source of their creativity.

A look back at Greek mythology reveals that while there are many gods that play a part in the inspiration of visual artists there is only one Greek god known for the production of his own works of art. This is Hephaestus (aka Hephaistos or Hephaestis), the Greek god of fire, "the creative flame, which is the foundation for all metal work" (Grimal 129). One of the twelve great Olympians, Hephaestus was born into the Pantheon under vague circumstances. Some stories say that he was the son of Zeus with his wife Hera, while others testify that Hera bore him on her own. A few ancient renditions explain that Hephaestus became disfigured while defending his mother from Zeus, yet most versions claim he was born a cripple, who so ashamed his mother that she immediately threw him out of Olympus, a tragic beginning that secured a solitary lifestyle for this wounded artist.

This fall from the heavens landed Hephaestus in the great Ocean, where was saved by sea goddess Thetis and the Oceanid Eurynome. He then spent the next nine years living alone in a remote cave near the sea, where he produced exquisite pieces of jewelry for the two that saved him as a token of his appreciation. During this long period of isolation, Hephaestus also had plenty of time to brood over the events that placed him in this life of solitary confinement and he began to plot revenge against his mother.

Hephaestus eventually got even with Hera for throwing him out of Olympus by creating an irresistible throne of gold, which was presented to her as his gift. This work of Hephaestian creativity turned out to be as dangerous as it was beautiful. As soon as Hera sat upon her new throne, she found that she was stuck to the seat, unable to get up. The gods then begged Hephaestus to return to the heights of Olympus to release his mother, but he will have nothing to do with the inhabitants of this divine realm who rejected him. Finally, Dionysus got Hephaestus drunk on wine and led him back to the heavens on the rump of a mule. There he was reunited with his mother, whom he decided to forgive and was in turn invited to retake his rightful position in the Greek Pantheon.

Further stories about Hephaestus in Greek literature are not all that common, yet when he does appear it is usually in his role as the craftsman.

Hephaestus made many objects of magical beauty and intricacy, including the palaces of the gods themselves in gold and bronze, gold-wheeled tripods that moved of their own accord, golden robots that attended him in his forge on Olympus, immortal gold and silver dogs to guard the palace Alcinous on the island of SCHERIA, the fearsome aegis of Zeus, and the famous golden necklace of HARMONIA. (March 190)

Greatly respected for the beautiful objects he created, Hephaestus was able to find wholeness in this art and great respect from his community of mortals and gods. Yet even though he was invited to live full time with the Olympic gods, he still preferred to continue spending most of his days in remote locations pursuing his craft.

While there are a few Greek images of Hephaestus working as an artist, these are relatively rare. This also seems to be true for most of the other artists of this era. In Greek society, the production of artistic works was generally perceived to be nothing more than the embellishment of functional objects, so most artisans were seen as nothing out of the ordinary. This impression continued in Europe for many centuries until the beginning of the Renaissance when the artist finally began to emerge out of the background.

During the early Renaissance, there was a growing appreciation for the work of visual artists, which also encouraged them to stand up and say, "I am here!" This is clearly seen in what was considered to be the first appearance of an artist in his or her own work. In the Flemish masterpiece by painter Jan van Eyck entitled "Wedding Portrait" (fig. 1), a young couple is seen exchanging wedding vows in the seeming privacy of their bridal chamber. Yet, a closer inspection of the painting reveals two people in the reflection of the mirror that is strategically placed on the back wall between the bride and groom. One of these is commonly considered to be the artist "since the words above the mirror, in florid legal lettering, tell us that 'Johannes de eyck fuit hic' (Jan van Eyck was here) in the year 1434" (fig. 2) (Janson and Janson 430).

Sixteen years later, in 1450, the French painter Jean Fouquet produced the first officially known "Self-Portrait" (fig.3). The solemn tone and official manner of this little copper enamel shows the artist solemnly staring out at the viewer, a portrayal that will be repeated again and again in self-portraiture for centuries. In 1500, German artist Albrecht Dürer, who is recognized as "the first artist to be fascinated by his own image," painted one of the most famous of all his numerous self-portraits (fig.4). In it the "solemn, frontal pose and the Christ-like idealization of the features assert an authority quite beyond the range of ordinary portraits [...], reflecting not so much Dürer's vanity as the seriousness with which he regarded his mission as an artistic reformer" (Janson and Janson 535).

The increased "self-awareness" that many Renaissance artists experienced during this time came with a major shift in their position in European society. For the first time since Plato, "fine art" began to rise from its lowly status of mere "handiwork," which lacked a theoretical basis, to join other "liberal arts" such as mathematics, rhetoric, and philosophy. "Thus when the artist gained admission to this select group, the nature of his work of art came to be viewed more and more as the visible record of his creative mind" (Janson and Janson 445). Artists were suddenly considered to be part of the literati. This new social status and education level also brought with it a notable change in the personality of many artists who "tended to develop into one of two contrasting personality types: the man of the world, self-controlled, polished, at ease in aristocratic society; and the solitary genius, secretive, idiosyncratic, subject to fits of melancholy, and likely to be in conflict with his patrons" (Janson and Janson 445).  

Not much seems to have changed since that time, since artists today are still described in such contrasting terms as: wild, eccentric, operating outside the bounds of the community, imaginative, visionary, talented, inspired, in touch with the divine, messy, moody, mad, temperamental, fussy, outspoken, all-seeing, blind to the world outside them, reclusive, difficult to deal with, skilled, crafty, earthy, able to survive when others could not, successful, starving, poor but with enough in their pocket for food and wine, unpredictable, crazy, and of course creative.

Creativity comes from the Latin word creare, "to create." It is what Rollo May describes as the "ability to find form in chaos, to create form where there is only formlessness" (137). The artistic ability to create what has never been before is a mystery to many and as psychologist Adolf Guggenbühl-Craig points out, there are even those who believe: "To be creative is an attribute of God's: God created heaven and earth, created us and all living beings. He is, therefore, creative–yes, only God is truly creative" (14). For mortals the process of creating is an unpredictable one at best.  It "consists of a long series of leaps of the imagination and the artist's attempts to give them form by shaping the material accordingly. The hand tries to carry out the commands of the imagination and hopefully puts down a brushstroke, but the result may not be quite what had been expected" (Janson and Janson 44).

The ability to work with this unpredictable force is what also separates the artist from the craftsman. "Whereas the craftsman attempts only what he knows to be possible, the artist is always driven to attempt the impossible–or at least the improbable or unimaginable" (Janson and Janson 47). Hephaestus' ability to work with the "creative fire" is what allowed him to create works of art the likes of which had never been seen before. This external creative force is also constantly on lookout for new willing and able bodies. According to contemporary artist Alex Grey, "The passion and delight of making art seduces a young artist into (an) unknowing alliance with (the) primal forces of creativity" (18).

Many artists claim their creativity seems to come from a source outside themselves that is channeled straight into their work. To form a willing alliance with these higher powers is to take on the role that Kandinsky refers to as a "priest (or priestess) of beauty" who creates that "which is produced by the inner need, which springs forth from the soul" (55). Alex Grey, who sees this inner need to create as a "gift from the spirit" that must be "given to the world," echoes this same sentiment. "The soul inspires artists with visions, sounds, stories, and actions so that they might share them with their community. Artists of good will create their work as a service to spirit's presence and as an offering of insight, healing, and joy to others" (180).

Making a connection with the spirit realm to gain insight, inspiration, and information for healing is also a specialty of shamans, who some art historians believe were the first artists. "Like the legendary Orpheus, they were believed to have divine powers of inspiration and to be able to enter the underworld of the subconscious in a deathlike trance, but, unlike ordinary mortals, they were than able to return to the realm of the living." Upon their return many of these shamans translate what they find into works of art, which help them gain "control over the forces hidden in human beings and nature" (Janson and Janson 44). To this day, shamans throughout the world create masks, headgear, and specialized ritual clothing to help them connect with this spirit world as well as totems and talismans, which they believe retain the magical powers they bring back with them from other side. 

Like Hephaestus, the shaman's ability to work with such unseen forces often develops after some sort of serious wounding. "Many times shamanic artists have developed their imaginal powers by long and arduous apprenticeships that have brought them to the brink of insanity and back" Then after the breakdown of their identity, "the shattered personality is eventually reassembled into the wounded and transformed healer" (Grey 210). As a result of this intense initiatory experience, the shamanic artist and healer is then able to communicate and build a relationship with their spirit guides who provide much of the creative inspiration behind their art.

Artists who have not had the benefit of an official initiatory introduction to the spirit realm often seek out artificial means to bridge the gap. The constant search for a way to connect with the source of their creativity can lead to a very Dionysian lifestyle. Jackson Pollock, a modern artist who was famous for this binge drinking, "often said to his wife, 'Painting is no problem; the problem is what to do when you're not painting'" (Gayford and Wright 176). Drinking was also an integral part of the lifestyle of many Impressionist painters such as Manet, Degas, Monet, Van Gogh, Gauguin, and Toulouse-Lautrec, who were all known to spend many hours in the cafes of Paris drinking absinthe. While it may be true that this intoxicating green concoction of wormwood and spirits added to the famous "lurid hallucinatory glow" that emanates from Impressionist paintings such as "Lautrec's pictures of dance halls and houses of ill-repute – as if alcohol and libidinous longing had heightened the perceptions of both artist and subject," it is also a fact that absinthe directly contributed to the demise of Lautrec and others artists of the era such as Van Gogh (Conrad 55).

The romantic image of the artist working away in a studio on the top floor of some rundown building with a beautiful view of the city, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of wine is a popular theme in paintings and films. While alcohol may indeed provide momentary flashes of illumination that give the impression of being truly connected, most often it merely dulls the pain of separation from the artist's source of inspiration. Hephaestus knew that while alcohol may have played a part in his initial reconnection with the gods, it was not something to rely on every time. "Artists may sometimes be tortured by the burden of their genius, but they can never be truly creative under the thrall of psychosis. The imagination is one of our most mysterious facets. It can be regarded as the connector between the conscious and the unconscious" (Janson and Janson 43). So how do artists cultivate a sustainable way to continuously connect with the gods above and/or the creative aspects of their unconscious?

One of the most reliable methods of receiving creative inspiration is to seek out solitude. Like Hephaestus alone in his cave by the sea, many artists find this seclusion an essential aspect of their artistic process. In 1568, Italian writer, painter, and architect, Giorgio Vasari commented on Michelangelo's love of solitude by saying:

No one should think it strange that Michelangelo loved solitude, for he was deeply in love with his art, which claims a man with all his thoughts for itself alone. Anyone who wants to devote himself to the study of art must shun the society of others. In fact, a man who gives his time to the problems of art is never alone and never lacks food for thought, and those who attribute an artist's love of solitude to outlandishness and eccentricity are mistaken, seeing that anyone who wants to do good work must rid himself of all cares and burdens: the artist must have time and opportunity for reflection and solitude and concentration. (Gayford and Wright 153)

And in 1863, the French poet Charles Baudelaire remarked on Delacroix's self-imposed "ivory tower" of seclusion by stating that: "Others may seek privacy for the sake of debauchery; he sought it for the sake of inspiration, and he indulged in veritable orgies of work" (Gayford and Wright 24).

The desire for time away from other people may also have something to do with the fact that it is rather difficult to find imagery of artists other than their self-portraits. After the Renaissance, as we move towards the Baroque period, self-portraits still haven't changed that much. Rembrandt's "Self Portrait" of 1658 (fig. 5) still shows a stern looking artist facing straight towards the viewer without any atmosphere to speak of except his clothing. Yet, another artist of this era, Diego Velázquez, finally started to liven things up a bit when he portrayed himself as a working artist in "The Maids of Honor" (fig. 6). Still somewhat hidden in the shadows, it is a major breakthrough nonetheless to see an artist at work in his own painting.

Moving on to the 1850's, a painting by French realist painter Gustave Courbet entitled "Studio of a Painter: A Real Allegory Summarizing My Seven Years of Life as an Artist" (fig.7) finally moves the artist to center stage. Yet, even though he working in the center of the room, almost no one else seems to care. On the left of the painting are people from his place of birth in the countryside near the Swiss border: "hunters, peasants, workers, a Jew, a priest, a young mother with her baby" and on the right are people that portray his life in the city of Paris: "clients, critics, intellectuals." Not one of these people is looking at the painter in the middle of the room. "Only two people watch the artist at work: a small boy, intended to suggest 'the innocent eye,' and the nude model," which "in a more conventional picture" might be identified as his "Inspiration" or "Muse" (Janson and Janson 664). Therefore, the focus still remains upon the artist and the source of their creativity.

At the beginning of the twentieth century, when a rising interest in psychology encouraged more self-reflection, self-portraits started to take an interesting turn. Looking at the self-reflective artwork of painters such as Marc Chagall and Joan Mirã, there is an obvious transition from the artist "separate from his work" towards the artist "at one with his work." Around 1910 a "Self-Portrait" (fig. 8) created by Chagall still looks stiff and rather traditional, yet by 1911 in his painting "I and the Village" (fig. 9) Chagall merges right into the abstraction and color of his painting as well as the natural world around him. 

A similar change is seen in Miró's transition between his 1919 "Self-Portrait" (fig. 10), which is colorful yet still conservatively posed and his 1960 "Self-Portrait" (fig. 11), which is as abstract as his new painting style. Another interesting aspect of this work is the fact it is painted right over an earlier self-portrait done in 1937, as if to say the old Mirã is no more, so pay attention to the new me and my new way of expressing myself. Artist and author Walter Erben pushes this idea even further by pointing out that "the crude drawing with its broad, black brush-strokes was not merely destructive but also producing something totally new – a physiognomical expression, like that of an ancient mask, which had been reduced to basics and which is put on for cultic purposes to conjure up magic forces" (139). Mirã has returned to the role of the ancient artist as shaman, completely in sync with the source of his creativity.

As we have seen, creativity and the artist are inseparable. It is a lifelong partnership for better or for worse. Artists who attempt to ignore the transcendent source of their inspiration can be driven mad by the nagging voice inside their heads that continually demands them to create! Yet, artists who are willing to be receptive to the flow of ideas from this unseen force will be greatly rewarded for their open attitude. While the required solitude may at first seem rather lonely, if they stick with it they will eventually find that this quiet time eventually evolves into something else entirely. Entering the studio then becomes a crossing of a boundary, which signals to the divine realms that the artist is ready and willing to work with the "creative fire" that leaves an indelible impression on everything produced, a clear symbol of the sacred partnership between creativity and the artist.

Works Cited

Conrad III, Barnaby. Absinthe: History in a Bottle. San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 1988.

Erben, Walter. Joan Mirã, 1893-1983: The Man and His Work. Köln, Germany: Banadikt Taschen, 1998.

Gayford, Martin and Karen Wright, eds. The Grove Book of Art Writing. 1st American ed. New York: Grove, 2000.

Grey, Alex. The Mission of Art. Boston: Shambhala, 1998.

Grimal, Pierre. Larousse World Mythology. Secaucus, NJ: Chartwell, 1973.

Guggenbühl-Craig, Adolf. From the Wrong Side: A Paradoxical Approach to Psychology. Trans. Gary V. Hartman. Woodstock, CN: Spring, 1995.

Haftmann, Werner. Marc Chagall. Trans. Heinrich Baumann and Alexis Brown. New York: H. N. Abrams, 1984.

Janson, H. W., and Anthony F. Janson. History of Art. Series 4th ed. New York: Abrams, 1991.

Kandinsky, Wassily. Concerning the Spiritual in Art. Trans. H. T. H. Sadler. New York: Dover, 1977.

March, Jennifer R. Cassell Dictionary of Classical Mythology. London: Cassell, 1998.

May, Rollo. My Quest for Beauty. San Francisco: Saybrook, 1985.