On Being An Artist

I have begun to read The English Patient. I really need to read excellent literature more often. With great hubris I read my work, and with puffed feathers I declare...to myself, as if I were god...that it is good. Upon reflection, after reading the work of a true master, I realize that I am merely a fool and, maybe, if I am very lucky, I might have a raw talent that (with copious amounts of training) I can eventually make use of and even sing the songs of angels. Hell, I'd just settle for a damn good choir, at this point. But for now, I guess I just need to keep reading the masters and train myself thusly; perhaps their ghosts will whisper to me through the pages and transform my pea brain into something truly magnificent. It's worth a shot, at least.

Where do the greats get such amazing images? All of my metaphors are borrowed and used up like the worn, dirty carpet in front of a well walked-through door. I admire beautiful imagery, sensual and speaking volumes of story within a scant few lines, and I gaze at the words in utter awe and amazement. I read them over and over again to myself, and listen to the flow of the words as I watch the perfection unfold in my mind. How did the artist think of this? How did the brain meld such images together in harmony so perfect that I know exactly what he means, can smell and taste every facet of the object or scene, and yet, I know that my mind would never yield the same interpretation, would feel foolish even making such comparisons and I wouldn't, in sheer cowardice, even dare to write such words. I am convinced that I am nothing more than an idiot, sometimes, without one single ounce of creativity within. 

*************************************************************************************

Have you ever noticed that the best stories seem to be about hopelessly broken people? Why is this? What is it about pain and limitation that, within the ugliness of dark situations, make something tremendously beautiful appear? It is in that moment of sublime humility when the soul seems to peek out of the shadows and shows itself head-on. Before that, when all is perfect, it is nothing more than the mask of the meat-suit, the gruesome grin of the empty-brained hedonist who is so disassociated from his frailty that he thinks he is invincible. This is what the mythologies of old have come to tell us; naive ignorance is comical, while invincible power becomes boring. The Christ, as GOD, would send us apathetic; the real story instead comes from the vulnerability of the anguish, the ability to be ripped apart by thorns, nails and spear. Even Superman needs kryptonite to be worthy of our tales, and Sampson is a dolt until he buckles after his hair is shaved away. Our heroes need to prove to us that they can rise up from the ashes, can carry their shame and wounded bodies forth to not only stand tall in the sunrise, but to also save the world from imminent disaster and demise. To be weak, yet to overcome, saves us all in the long run. It gives us the hope that we desperately crave, the sense that maybe we, too, can reach out of our private hell and redeem not only ourselves, but also those who were brave enough to believe in us with every step of our tortured journey. 

*************************************************************************************

Is this what it means to be an artist? To delve into the muck of our existence, to rage against the chains that bind us to flesh and blood, just so we can write, or paint, or create something that evokes a response within others that moves, stirs, and ignites the spirit into the experience of feeling alive? If I never wrote another word, could I still see myself as an artist if I at least provoked emotion in those around me? Is my life a work of art that can inspire, or enrage, or at least invite discussion from those close to me? And their lives, in turn, would also be a work of art that moves me just as much. 

Dear readers, thank you for your beautiful creations. I am honored to witness them all.