The Artist & Their Art

I’m so deeply fascinated with the ways in which music, poetry, or writing can connect with an audience. The artist choosing to share things in a way that speaks most to them which in turn speaks to us. Bearing their emotions, thoughts, and most buried feelings to the frontlines. Oftentimes there aren’t even words involved. Photography and paintings require no voice to demonstrate their message but we hear it.

The beauty of our connection with an artist’s work is so special because their experiences can be so vastly different from our own. Their lives resemble something we would never recognize. Yet none of it matters. We get them.

In an artist’s most complete state of vulnerability, they often create the most beautiful works of art. Forcing themselves to relive the heartbreak of their darkest moments to create their work. And it’s so beautiful we dedicate time to listen to their music. Go to museums to admire their work. And before we know it, a gripping lump in our throat is present. Tears begin streaming down our faces as if a semi-truck tumbled over our tear ducts. And if we were to be asked why we were crying, we probably couldn’t explain it.

It’s emotion. Emotions have a way of speaking a language google translate would be unable to transcribe. And still, we understand it perfectly. It’s the only shared language of every country, culture, or person. Art allows the artist to articulate shared human emotions.

Sharing the exact same experience isn’t a necessity as long as we can relate to the emotion that’s behind it. As humans, we understand deep sadness about something, joy, or even excitement. When an artist’s work extracts that same emotion they’re feeling out of us, it’s because the feelings they're describing are similar to those we’ve felt before.

There have been times I’ve looked at a painting that has made no conceptual sense yet I am so energetically drawn to it. I almost feel as if I was present while it was being constructed. I can almost imagine the emotion that was present with each brushstroke. I’m sure a lot of it has to do with color theory and the sciences of the ways colors affect us but I still find myself enamored.

I end up getting so inspired I almost sprint home to grab my 5 below paintbrushes and paint to try to reconstruct what I felt. But mine is so vomit-inducing and the lack of artistic ability is so present. But the jagged lines and cheap paint aren’t what set my painting apart from the original. It’s the lack of real emotion. Attempting to recreate something that was created in the midst of raw emotion just isn’t as powerful. It’s sad. Semi-truck over your tear ducts sad.