On Artists and Beautiful Dents
“You have to be damaged to create art. Damaged, but within reason.”
“You think I’m damaged within reason?”
“Very much. A dent I’d be happy to kiss.”
“But you’re sure I’m damaged.”
And she blushed.
She designs as an expression, links dots to create patterns of solid colors and those which intermingle just enough to be together. You have to hear her speak, every syllable is pronounced with certainty. You have to witness her art, every stroke exists on its own.
The absence of all frivolity speaks of her mind and the flow of her thoughts. The communication is transparent, an allowance to be held. The grace with which she conducts herself translated into the poise of her pen, as it moves over paper with a gentle scratch, saying its mind with no hesitation.
A statement is firm, with a hint of stubbornness. A line meets an edge on paper, with a hint of playfulness. A curve that’s drawn transcends across the available canvas, toying with the concept of limitless flight. All her intent and sheer strength presents itself in form of a simple sketch, offering volumes to read.
An artist is stretched taut between two points. A mirror polish dented — subtly scratched — in so wholesome a manner, that it assumes a new being. Endless ripples in still water, fluttering banners in a busy marketplace, folded pages of a book well read. It is beautiful to have lived, to have traveled and to have loved. It’s beautiful to have understood grief and pain, to have laughed with abandon and made love with wild vigor.
An artist sails through the storms, seeks them out, and discovers ever more. An artist is disturbed by the present, restlessness to be somewhere else, someplace else, to live another present and feel the ocean inside churn its heart out. An artist yearns for tomorrow.
I have admired many. I will admire many.
They walk into my life with a purpose. I consume their brilliance.