In her diary, Sylvia Plath wrote on the 7th of July 1950: “It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: After a heavy rainfall, poems titled RAIN pour in from across the nation”.
If I try to reference each time a poet, a writer, a painter, a composer, or a photographer were driven by the weather towards their pen, their brush or their instrument I could end up with a PhD thesis. Artists are tender sensitive beings, they are more human than uncreative humans thus are more effected, more influenced and stimulated by weather, they belong more to this earth, they feel more, they suffer more, they cry bitterly, they laugh hysterically, there is never an in between.
This doesn’t mean artists prefer fine weather, on the contrary, many find their emotions dulled by warmth and comfort, many prefer raging storms, flooding rain, wild winds.. the extreme can be calming, resembling the unrest always dwelling within them.
Autumn - by Alexander Pushkin
October has arrived - the woods have tossed
Their final leaves from naked branches;
A breath of autumn chill - the road begins to freeze,
The stream still murmurs as it passes by the mill,
This is my time: I am not fond of spring;
The tiresome thaw, the stench, the mud - spring sickens me.
The blood ferments, and yearning binds the heart and mind..
With cruel winter I am better satisfied,