ART

On power.

Photo by RhondaK Native Florida Folk Artist on Unsplash

Art is pain.

From a nagging itch to a festering wound, art is what happens to the world when an artist suffers.

It is born from their anguish. 

It compels them to pick up a brush, a pencil, a guitar, or a skillet. 

To stand vulnerable before a mountain of granite, a bolt of wool, a bar full of drunks, or a blank page. 

To sift through sand, water, refuse, and ash. 

To wage war on color, light, shadow, percussion, and language until it bends to reflect their heartache. 

It pulls music from lungs and forces rhythm through bodies. 

It manifests beauty. Horror. And the darkly rich places in between.
  
Art is pressure.

It is betrayal, trauma, fidelity, regret, and regrowth sewn into vivid tapestries and welded into unsinkable ships. 

It is passion, loss, yearning, shame, and innocence blended into a healing stew that stirs our memories and reconstitutes our parched empathy. Our shared starvation for touch and compassion.
  
Art is pleasure.

It lures. Moves. Intoxicates. 

It digs deep and finds our center. 

It presses gently, firmly, gently, firmly, and then again. 

Art is release.

It leaves us breathless. Awestruck. Grateful. Awake. Simple.

Art is private.

Art is public.

Art is peaceful.

Art is petulant.

Art is precious.

Art is poor.

Art. 

Is. 

Possible. 

It gives voice to the voiceless and courage to the discouraged. 

It minds the undermined and serves the underserved. 

It forgives, forgets, replays, and reminds us. Every day. 

We are human.

Art is hard labor.

It is degrading and propulsive and generous and oh, so tragically temporary. 

But we love it.

Because it hurts.

Art is pain.

And pain is love.

And love is power.

And power … 



                   … is everything.

Photo by Amauri Mejía on Unsplash