A truism, that art is born of pain.
Sadness, grief, loneliness, longing, villains of the heart which have ever mitigated their existence by providing fodder for the creative; seeds of beauty, in all their ugliness, when planted in the fertile soil of the artist’s soul. Ironic that these emotions, so inherently consumptive, are the finest fuel for the magnanimous generosity which is the truest essence of art.
Little wonder, then, that an explosive artistic harvest has been evident over these past dark months: paintings, drawings, lyrics, poems, dances, melody, and loveliness of every genre, inspired by the keen, searing pain of losing the presence of one whose existence seemed the very embodiment of creativity. From mourning bloomed beauty, and grief birthed a bounty of originality.
So this musing, then, an admittedly flimsy silver lining, a celebration of the release of creative beauty like the loosing of doves of every imaginable hue, raucously flocking aloft to soften the skies over the desert of the left behind.
So too in this, this flight, this freedom from temporal ills … in this, as in all things, the Maestro … gives.
©2017 Tracy Jones