What of art?
And why create?
I'm contemplating on these questions now that I'm almost through with my first year (albeit with materials class left behind because of conflict in schedulte). In between rushing to school from work and tons of plates, I sometimes wonder, if, indeed I have made the right choice.
I knew I wanted it. With eyes closed, I plunged in and gave it a shot. But wanting it and doing the hard work are two different things. Now I have to be real.
And these are the answers:
I've never felt balanced in my whole life for the longest time. And now I do. I may lack sleep but I know I am at peace. A tempest has been subdued, its powers now course through my veins, then to my fingers, and finally to my paints and my canvass. It's no longer in my head. Now it can be seen. Now the enemy (in other times, the muse) is seen and once overt, it is easier to conquer.
There you are, tiny devils in my head (or little fluttering angels sometimes), that's how you look like.
And now I can forget about you.
Why create, then?
Looking at my old works, I now feel far removed from them, sometimes despising the inspiration (or the instigator?) for such a work. A portrait of a boy I once knew is stacked behind old works, his hair almost covering his whole face, a single eye stares back (or is it startled?). I remember painting it with a certain delicateness (?) akin to holding a bud about to bloom. But now, the memory is vague as is the feeling.
Still another painting, of two men facing each other, in between them a stem of flowers, both wilting and blooming. A tale of love. But even this is forgotten.
I, at least, I, create so I can destroy.
We create the detours, previously in our minds, now in color and tangible, stamps of places we have been. Someday soon we will look back -- and remember, not the past but how far we are from it.
You will be forever etched in my memory however long ago been buried. Covered with layers of succeeding memories not related to you. But I would, sometimes, like a butterfly flutter my way to your tombstone where flowers lay. But you will not be unearthed. I will, am, as all other things in the world do, move forward even without me willing to. That's just how life is. The world turns and goes about its ways, regardless of the upheavals that lay before its path.
