A careful balance

What is an artist? Is it a man who knows himself? A man who does not? A man who grasps what he is capable of? One who underestimates himself? A man well versed in the discourse of sensitivity and imagination? One who embraces life's qualities, both great and poor, and all along the in-between?

What is art? Is it every creation of man? How can we know the difference between art and everything else?

Art is merely the materialization of circumstance and emotion.

Circumstance being the sum of a man's experience at any given time, and emotion being inherent to the human condition, can it not be reasoned that art is created by life itself? Can it not be said then that all art already exists, but does not yet take form until the right combination of life experience and emotional feeling has been found? If so, every person has within them a great creation waiting to be formed by their experiences and feelings. We should be cautious not to forget to create it.

What we do not know however, is where on the path of life we will create our works. Some will create many pieces. Some will create few. Some just one. Others none at all. These people do not value the endeavor.

Some will be beautiful; some grotesque. We will be indifferent to some. Some will be incomplete. Others will be works of collaboration. Some will have missing pieces that others will later complete. Others will have gaping holes that can never be filled.

Some will be revered; some disdained; but every man's life gives form to that which without it would be rendered unrecognizable, but present nevertheless.

A man cannot choose his creation, though he may try. Outline some rough sketches; plan his path with great attention to detail, but his final work will prove his planning futile. It's almost as if the art chooses the man, however we know better. It does not retain this capability. Rather the man chooses it, either through careful consideration to life and discipline of the self, or by the complete lack of regard thereof. Others, most perhaps, by some combination of the two.

Great works do not always come from great lives, but many times from those of lesser accord. In this sense, men are rendered all equal. Whether that equality is in proportionate greatness, or misery, or dreadfulness, the scales are balanced still. It is this balance that gives us all the chance to achieve greatness, even when it seems our path leads to nowhere.

The Writer

I am the writer.

I should not be credited with the creation of the ideas my words describe. These are not mine. They belong to all of you. I am but their servant, laboring to give them form.

I did not create them. They have always existed and always will. I only make words on a page from that which already exists.

Is there such a thing as original thought? Can any person know if their musings are truly their own? Would it not be more assured that some other person, at some other time, has had the same epiphanies?

I am the writer.

I exhaust my capabilities only to say that which has already been thought, already been said, but to do so in a modern voice, taking great care not to adulterate them with poetry or prose, but also to give them the eloquent justice they deserve.

I am the writer.

I am a slave to consciousness.