That is Art

There is art and then there is art, and standing between them is art.
By this I mean there is art that is created by the artist and there is art that is perceived by the audience. And between those two, the created and the perceived, is the piece of artwork. It can stand alone but always takes on meaning through creation and perception. And the meaning may not be the same for the artist and the audience. The work itself may or may not have an inherent meaning. You would have to ask the piece what it meant, and until a piece of art becomes sentient that question will remain a mystery. Certainly an artist may create with an intention and that intention may come across to the audience, they may “get it.” Artist’s aides such at titles, descriptions, biographies and philosophical methodological ponderings can all help the audience to “get it.” But certainly the audience also has the option to ignore all that and find their own meaning in the piece that has nothing to do with the intention of the artist. The meaning is then derived from their own experiences and psychological profile. But if the piece was wrapped up, stored away for a hundred years, all the descriptors lost from memory and then the piece was rediscovered it would still have meaning for those that found it. That is art.

November

November

 

 

Glistening white, unique and alone.

Drifting from high above to here below.

Settling one on another, building up

A landscape of white.

The empty, quiet world awaits

For that soft touch of frozen fingers,

Caressing the tree, the brush, the soil.

White drifting, wafting, floating.

Silence blanketed in muffled chills

Alone, unique, silent, wandering.

Come hushed stillness.

 

By David Corbet

Struggle

A constant struggle,
A tug, a shake, a quake.
A pull this way & then that way.
Up, down, in, out.
A constant struggle
Light & dark blending in
Strobe effects of smoky haze.
Reality is obscured & contrasted.
A constant struggle,
Tear stained smiles & false
Bravado to make it through
The day, fearing the night.
A constant struggle,
To awake each morning
Plod on, trod on, fallen on
Some meaningless soul.
A constant struggle,
To survive the day with
Music & lines on pages as
The only solace.

Hearing the song of gray

She sings sweetly in my ear and I wonder if the words spring from her soul. I wonder if I could be her muse. I wonder if she is as delicate and as kind as her voice. What would life be like at her side? It is a lost dream, one destined to never be fulfilled. Life always brings the unexpected and the unexplained. We must not wait for the evil to consume us but must be vigilant in our defense with good and righteousness. Lost dreams can bring evil, or they can be used to fertilize the truth of reality, of passion sought and won. Don’t let her sweet voice be the symbol of a failed existence, but as the rallying cry of great things, the standard bearer leading the charge into the darkness of swirling futures with out certainty. The prize is only won after the race is complete. Run to win, but not for the prize for it is fleeting and will not bring the strength to continue winning. Race to win; race to build the strength to race again, and again and again…

Life is gray. Life is a blend of the rich darkness of utter blackness bringing decay and chaos and the pure white of truth and perfection. But the gray is not evil; it is necessary. Gray is the dawning of the new day when the world is filled with solemn silence preparing for the release of potential. Gray is the cloud that brings the nurturing rains from which all life springs. Gray is the blur of movement across the screen of life. Gray is life lived without regret, but with pain and joy in abundance. Gray is the willingness to risk pain to gain joy and love and all things good. With out gray there would be no depths of shadows, no horizon to run towards. Without gray the world would be simple and simplistic and naive and utterly boring. But very safe. Very safe, indeed.

So how do we wade through the complexities of grayness which pervades life at every turn? We walk gently and securely with one hand on the white staff of truth. We keep our heart pure filled with passion ready to act with compassion towards neighbor and enemy alike. Those with the eyes to see can pierce the foggy grayness with clarity of sight. Those with the eyes to see are not held by the cryptic nature of the ever present grey. Right action, right direction becomes crystal clear and impossible to escape. But those without the sight are lost and confused, dismayed at the actions of others. They are held captive by their own fear, their own guilt. They fail and fall deeper into the dark blackness which hides below the gray waiting to pounce on the unaware. They cannot move towards the light, towards the white. But one cannot reach the white until they have gained the sight to move safely through the grey. So seek the sight which brings life, brings insight, brings clarity of thought and action. Take it and use it. Gain the white.

Copyright 2011

David Corbet