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| What's New at The Furball Factory? |
Ed Pierce
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D. C. Dill
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Basant Sharma
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Aldwyn Nightstar
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Darrel Bechtel
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About The Furball Factory
The "Technicolor Yawn" of the Arts
Where creativity is shared, not critiqued
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"Why furballs?", you may ask.
I get this a lot.
By way of long-winded and rambling explanation, I ask you to please refer to your own childhood. Anywhere, say,
from as early as you can remember up until about the age of 8 or 9.
Remember how much you loved to draw and color? The joy of painting
with bright colors on cheap grainy newsprint? Building elaborate fortresses out of blocks on a
kindergarten or nursery table? Or castles out of sand?
Remember spinning fantastic tales out of thin air?
Remember how -- when you felt like singing -- tunes just popped out of your mouth as naturally
as anything... whether they were favorite familiar tunes or a once-in-a-lifetime never-to-be-repeated
"nonsense" songs you made up as you went along?
Remember acting out wildly elaborate games with other kids -- running
through your neighborhood like a wild dog pack -- battling aliens, racing an
Olympic marathon, smuggling vital defense plans back to revolutionary headquarters?
Ideas bouncing between you and your friends like pinballs... faster and faster...
jolting the game through delightfully unexpected turns.
Glorious creativity run rampant. Unchecked. Uncensored. Uninhibited.
Then a very sad thing happened -- your inner critic clicked in. Sometimes it
starts with outer voices. But it's mostly an inner voice. Telling
you that your drawings don't look like what they're supposed to. That your
singing is out of tune. That your made-up games are... well... silly.
You wake from your personal creativity as if from a wonderful dream that you
can never quite recapture. You wake to a world where expertise is the price
of our own approval -- if you can't win the gold medal, you really needn't bother.
The paintings go unpainted. The tales untold. The songs never
sung.
As you grow older, you eventually settle into your place on the assembly line.
Squeezing yourself to fit into the overpriced undersized efficiency-apartment slot society has
grudgingly opened to you. Performing
your narrowly defined role within specified parameters. Focusing on
the role, quietly denying the whole... until, gradually over time, you forget. You
begin to think your role IS the whole of who you are.
But the need remains. The fundamental need to create.
So your creative material builds up. Not unlike the lint that collects on
the filter in your clothes dryer. Or the blue fuzz in your belly button. Very much like...
Furballs.
Plump. Juicy. Succulent little furballs.
Oh, it's not always pretty. What you hack up is often surprising
-- sometimes even a little alarming. But you invariably feel better once
you've gotten it out of your system.
It's my hope that this web site will provide a forum where we may publish, share
-- yea, even consume with GREAT relish -- one another's little furballs. Because there's
nothing like the deep satisfaction of appreciating someone else's art to inspire
you to hack up a little of your own.
The founding contributors of The Furball Factory share an interesting trait in common: none of
us make our living by our art. We all have other jobs that pay the bills. So our art is
a "hobby", a "side-line", a "past-time" -- nothing quite as serious as a life's work.
And, believe it or not, there's something a little... freeing... about that.
It gives your inner critic a little bit less of a stranglehold on your creative output. You can
flash the little rat bastard a big ol' grin before dunking his head in the toilet and giving him an
attractive swirly new 'do.
It gives you the freedom to follow your creativity wherever it leads you. For no one but yourself.
It doesn't need to be perfect. Nothing as lofty as high art... as structured as the great American
novel... or as grandiose as a classical symphony. Just something uniquely yours. From deep within.
They're just... little furballs.
Hmmmm. Feel that little creative itch starting at the back of your throat? Thinking of that story you
always meant to write up? That painting you never quite got around to starting? That poem that just
needs a little more polish?
No -- don't look to your inner critic to stop you. He's still spluttering around in the toilet. The brakes
are off. There's nothing standing in your way. Just get up. Now.
And see what comes out...
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The Furball Factory, Copyright © 2002
All content on the Furball Factory site is copyrighted
with all rights reserved by the artist.
This content is NOT public domain and may NOT be copied in
any form without express permission.
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