Poets and painters are merely imitators. We struggle to define life, which is already perfectly poetic on its own, and to recreate the natural world, which is already breathtakingly beautiful. There is a touch of madness in us who desire to use such weak things as words to elaborate on something already so complete. There are only 2 million words in the English language. Ive used most of the good ones, but it will never be enough. We paint from life and we paint from memory, flattening the panoramic splendor down to two dimensions and three primary colors. We stand at our easels knowing it doesnt come close. Van Gogh drove himself crazy trying to match the color of a wheat field. But we will keep trying. Its what we do. Every day we wake up in awe of a burning sunrise or feel inspired by the beauty of a babys carefree smile, well contemplate recreation, wanting to capture the moment like a child gathers fireflies in a jar. The wise ones realize that even when the jar is full, it is never as miraculous as seeing them flash randomly, freely in an open field as the moon rises.
Posted on: Sun, 29 Jun 2014 20:41:55 +0000
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