Listen Closely

Confessions should be better planned. But I don't like planning and I don't like confessions. I confess to myself and I absolve myself. No little box in a church necessary. I forgive myself and I do not regret. I do not regret all the things that make me so very human. And so, once again I will not regret and I will forgive myself.

The reasons I haven't posted in quite a while are numerous. None include lack of inspiration or some form of "writer's block". I have infact been writing every day. However, art-wise I have found myself wondering. This Summer has been a busy one so I like to do all the "wondering" I can for my sanity's sake. 

June 1st, 2018. I find myself in Amsterdam's blessed Van Gogh Museum. I stand facing the last painting of the day. 'Wheatfield with Crows'- Vincent Van Gogh, 1890.

And IT happened. Now, I realize many of you don't know what IT is. But, IT is probably the feeling every person lives in dread of not having. The reason why I imagine someone once said, 'Never meet your heroes'.

Now...I unfortunately did not get to meet one of my heroes. However, I did meet his work and that proved more than good enough for me. I saw his feeling in texture and stroke. He told me his secrets in deep colour. And whispered a soft goodbye when I finally looked away. 

And then IT struck. There I stood. Wide eyed, deer in headlights; full of fear. Not a bad fear. That kind of adrenaline fueled fear when you jump off that pier, you plunge down screaming on that rollercoaster or you finally tell him that you love him. The type of fear you crave. And I had it. The fear, the awe, the lump in my throat. Slightly impossible to explain. It's also very possible I could explain but I don't want to. Typical really. Probably for some selfish reasons of wanting it to be mine.

My point being, one of my old art teachers always told us of how when she saw her first Rothko, she simply didn't feel IT. Never meet your heroes eh? But there I was. Teary-eyed, trying to swallow, totally captivated. It was in that moment (excuse the clichè) that I was alone in that bustling room. I was alone. I was meeting my hero and he told me every feeling he had in that one painting. And I was listening. I was present and I was listening to quivering strokes and to a distraught blue sky.

And it just makes me wonder.... if anyone else did. Not now, but then. If anyone else just listened. Maybe we'd have more paintings. Maybe we would have more textures to read. Or maybe we just wouldn't. Maybe we don't want to listen. Maybe there wasn't enough time. But, maybe art is the only way we know how to stop time.

It is so much more than simply drawing or copying pictures. It is a need. I need I am happy to have. It is a necessity we have had since we drew on cave walls. It tells stories. It tells people we love them. It tells the world that we were here and that we mattered. That our little existence mattered, even if it wasn't for all that long. Because we breathed, we fought to live and we loved so, so much. We loved so much that we just fear to lose it all. And that is the only way I know how to explain our fear. That quiet violence. The terror we live with and forgive ourselves for everyday. That distraught blue sky has the exact same fear entwined. 

Some love their passion. I get to live mine every day of my life. I want IT to happen to me every single day. To remind me why I wake up with pencils in my bed. To remind me that my love will always outweigh my fear. To remind me that I will always be listening.

The day I look at something so beautiful and hear nothing but silence I will pray for talking textures, words whispered and distraught blue skies.

Forgive yourself.

Do not regret.

Listen closely.

-A.H