I am not a scientist or philosopher. I have not exhausted the depths of scientific discovery or waded into the philosophical postulations of all the “why”s and “how”s of existence and nature and purpose. Nor am I an artist –not in any traditional sense– but I do have a sense of what is communicated in arte. Even bad arta; an expression of one’s self, being, perception, and experience.
One of my favorite artists is Bob Dylan. He confuses me and I have discovered why confusion is admirable. He doesn't communicate an answer or direct interpretation of life; but rather, the confusion we all feel about war and love, beauty and pain. Dylan, in many ways, combined a strange string of sounds and words that give a substantive realization to the pain that nurtures the human heart.
Beauty is not found in an evasion of life, but rather an embrace of it. Recently, I had been given a bit more struggle than I cared to accept; but, as I was denied any control over my life and accepted the hardness and painful situation in which I found myself, I felt my heart hurt with something wholesome...a poetic sadness: an aching so profound that my tears of confusion and angry soundless screams were only icons of reality, symbols of a situation far more independent of me than I will ever understand.
Burning in my soul were unanswered petitions to God, submitted under full moons and atop cold stained linoleum. The entire package of life weighed more than I could bear. It pressed me and hurt me, threshing me so close to the floor the very groans I uttered caused my heart to fissure and split, opening it in an unexpected seizure of epiphany.
I do not want to discredit happiness with my new-found appreciation for its opposite; happiness is beautiful. However, it is rarely memorable. Pleasure is nice, but it did nothing for my broken heart; it seemed only to split it, like a cracked windshield bathed with hot water. It would have been my ruin if I were not wisely counseled to embrace the pain that comes with life.
This embrace delivered me to a very personal and irresistible conclusion about the cosmos. Not one based on philosophy or research (I’m not qualified to even write on those things) but on the fact of beauty. The beautiful confusion of Dylan or the lovely chaos of Van Gough exemplifies a creativity that derives from an empirical source, a deliberate and conscious extraction of one’s heart. No one did not write, “It’s All Over Now Baby Blue,” Dylan did. Someone painted Starry Night, it was Van Gough!
I’m reminded of an anecdote about a man who believes he is dead. He is questioned by his doctor about being dead and what he knew about dead men. The doctor asked gently but deliberately, “Do dead men dream?” The man said, “I dream.” The doctor, dissatisfied asked, “Do dead men bleed?” The man, understanding they don’t, answered, “No, they don’t bleed.” So, the doctor pricked the man’s finger with a pin; the man retracted his hand, examined it, and responded, “I guess dead men do bleed.”
Same is for many who are in complete denial of something so obvious: we are here, humanity is a creation, and an artist did it. The heart of a creator is exposed in us and around us, through and in everything. God condescended–like Chagall or Rubens with a tiny brusht–to expose his deep heart, filled with love and beauty.
Since many have an allegiance to a belief about nothingness, they subvert the beauty of our existence. A cosmic tapestry manifests God’s artistry, while many cleave to an abhorrence of fact and arrogantly conclude that dead men bleed.
One of my favorite artists is Bob Dylan. He confuses me and I have discovered why confusion is admirable. He doesn't communicate an answer or direct interpretation of life; but rather, the confusion we all feel about war and love, beauty and pain. Dylan, in many ways, combined a strange string of sounds and words that give a substantive realization to the pain that nurtures the human heart.
Beauty is not found in an evasion of life, but rather an embrace of it. Recently, I had been given a bit more struggle than I cared to accept; but, as I was denied any control over my life and accepted the hardness and painful situation in which I found myself, I felt my heart hurt with something wholesome...a poetic sadness: an aching so profound that my tears of confusion and angry soundless screams were only icons of reality, symbols of a situation far more independent of me than I will ever understand.
Burning in my soul were unanswered petitions to God, submitted under full moons and atop cold stained linoleum. The entire package of life weighed more than I could bear. It pressed me and hurt me, threshing me so close to the floor the very groans I uttered caused my heart to fissure and split, opening it in an unexpected seizure of epiphany.
I do not want to discredit happiness with my new-found appreciation for its opposite; happiness is beautiful. However, it is rarely memorable. Pleasure is nice, but it did nothing for my broken heart; it seemed only to split it, like a cracked windshield bathed with hot water. It would have been my ruin if I were not wisely counseled to embrace the pain that comes with life.
This embrace delivered me to a very personal and irresistible conclusion about the cosmos. Not one based on philosophy or research (I’m not qualified to even write on those things) but on the fact of beauty. The beautiful confusion of Dylan or the lovely chaos of Van Gough exemplifies a creativity that derives from an empirical source, a deliberate and conscious extraction of one’s heart. No one did not write, “It’s All Over Now Baby Blue,” Dylan did. Someone painted Starry Night, it was Van Gough!
Same is for many who are in complete denial of something so obvious: we are here, humanity is a creation, and an artist did it. The heart of a creator is exposed in us and around us, through and in everything. God condescended–like Chagall or Rubens with a tiny brusht–to expose his deep heart, filled with love and beauty.Since many have an allegiance to a belief about nothingness, they subvert the beauty of our existence. A cosmic tapestry manifests God’s artistry, while many cleave to an abhorrence of fact and arrogantly conclude that dead men bleed.
Comments
Peace,
Jose.
one request: could you please hit some smileys $$$$ in my blog