Some artists are ice-cold materialists.

Some have been surprised enough by the unexpected, the ephemeral, by strange dream-like experiences arising from studio and life to be alert to factors of indeterminate reality dancing just beyond peripheral awareness. 

These experiences drive some artists to plunge into religions and spiritual practices, from the classic to the arcane. Journeys that become far-flung wanderings, hinterland hikes with no end, lured by the flickering of distant fires to cross vast, endless darknesses. Fumbling from one ancient discovery to the next.

The more fortunate soon notice those same fires burning within the studio. Luring them into uncertainty, into arcana. Into making spectacular mistakes. Urging them to tweak and nudge at the subconscious, watching for surprises. They mentally sketch out a world, map its psychic landmarks. Bump again and again into what they eventually recognize to be articles of faith. At which point they’ve become sole adherents of a religion only they can comprehend. A religion that needs no help from the gods of the desert or mountains, or from the handlers of sticks cards bones beads candles incense. 

There’s more than enough mystery in the minds of committed artists to slake every mystic thirst.