An artist is a marvelous creature, highly misunderstood and misjudged for all his vision and art.
Art, as you know, is not always something beautiful. It is a truth, disregarded on purpose, hence sour to our senses and the artist is a madman, a heretic for he dares! he dares to show us what we so impecabbly have been ignoring all our lives.
An artist is someone who feels too much, sees too much and says too much without using too many words.
He dances and lets all the feelings lose, he becomes a marvel to behold; he sings and he becomes his voice, enchanting us all; he paints and he becomes a magic weilder with paint and brush, a master of strokes, a generator of wordless descriptions; he writes and tranforms his thoughts into words, a painful task, a beautifully painful task.
His tools are the simplest the ink and paper, his task complicated.The story writes itself through him rather than the opposite. He is the tool to something greater than him, he is a mediator.
They are the rare creatures, the artists, you pass by them and you never know them until you really know them.
They would tell you in the mornings how the breeze feels, they would make you feel; they would look at the sky and tell you how that tiny little cloud just travelled to merge into that giant grey one, they would make you look; they would talk about the stars, varrying colors of the sky, the birds and all the small things that seem insignificant to us, they would make you wonder.
You can make them see the reason in losing art, on being more wordly, in being more practical but you cannot take art out of them. It radiates from them, it seeps out of them. Their eyes would always blaze, their notebooks consume ink, their brushes would be tainted with fresh paint, their voices would echo and their feet move.
Being an artist is therefore not a choice but a compulsion for them. Artists therefore may die as artists though their art was only expressed in the lonely rooms where they danced their best, the bathrooms and the kitchens where they used their vocals, school and college workbooks which hold testament to their cunning use of curves and lines, and the notebooks covered page by page with ink and words, lying under the old stacks of books. . .