The Dictionary defines “thief” as, one that steals especially stealthily or secretly.  I would like to absolve myself of this title.  It was given to me by a writer last summer in a workshop in Ohio. As he described my work he said, very simply, “you are a thief.”  What I found most alarming about his accusation was the way he smiled proudly after it came out of his mouth—as if he had found the perfect adjective, absolutely divine and truthful.  It was ironically original and had a nice ring to it, but as he said it I felt like I had been caught. Thief, is a cuss word to an artist. Right next to phony, and inauthentic, and simple, and plagiarism, and cliche, and dumb bitch. The perpetual search for originality plagues artists. I had failed in this incredibly simple quest. I was “one that steals especially stealthily or secretly.”  I was paralyzed by the notion that I was constantly committing robbery, and what was most disorienting was that I found the name to be fitting. I stole from everyone and everything, constantly. But that is the well known trick of artists. To steal and not be caught, find inspiration wherever possible at whatever cost. Still, to be a thief had a troubling ring to it and I wasn’t comfortable being one.  My solution was this: be one who steals out of necessity, and for art - but never do it secretly, or stealthily again. That way, I won’t be a thief. My life’s work won’t be immoral. I will romanticize my loot, my findings, and create refuge for every other thief. Every other artist. Wrap the products of all the stolen things neatly in a package—call it, Cherry Blue.

Yours, 

Ruby Richard Weston