greasy thumb print


IMG_8236, originally uploaded by seekingsol.

A four a.m. ramble chasing a case of insomnia…

Art is the greasy thumb print left on the sliding glass door through which we see our life. The artist is innate in every human being as lines to every hand. Arts expression, its imprint, needs only the “called upon” material through which it can reveal its contour, its consistency, its shape and form in our life. The specific material (of which there are as many sorts as there are people) will call, and attract, the artist to itself. Like beads of mercury, the two are hungry for reunion. Every artist starts as an amateur, and it is the duty of the amateur to actively listen for the call. To “actively listen,” means to wander around and follow your curiosity. “The call” is not a voice, but the ringing, of something that feels familiar; a ringing that makes your insides vibrate excitedly, like the inside of a rung bell. Art is not so much a paintbrush as it is a poem, a play, a fort, a flower, a healing, a home, a picture, a meal, a sentence, a scribble, a swirl made in the mud, a song, a dance, a child, or any other interpretation of a dream of ones reality. Art wakes up for breakfast, when we lay down to sleep. It paints the pictures of our dreams, but it’s up to us to interpret even our own inner Art’s meaning. Which we can do. For our inner Art works primarily with that with which we expose it. And so likewise it should be the work of our day to expose more and gather the new supplies of Art’s needed raw material: the leaves and sunsets and laughs and seasons and time spent with living creatures, which are all only a few of the finest of ingredients. But also the mistakes, the mud puddles, the bites, the spiders, the swearing and the struggles — for the light of our work will only be as bright as our shadows dark, balance will be essential to the overall composition, and the seeds of new inspiration are born like tadpoles only in the shady, dark pools where mystery is inclined to breed. Without our indentions, how would we ever leave any impression? On the sliding glass door?

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