I am currently in my pajamas, at my desk while I write this, my hair is unbrushed and my eyes probably still have sleep in the corners and I keep sneezing from my cold. But hey, it’s Saturday, my day off of saving the world. Hopefully the Avengers can handle this one.
Normally I have a mental image in my head of what my blog post is going to be about, but not today, just writing the thoughts as they enter my mind. I’m in a bit of a poetic mood this morning, so it should be something half way decent.
It’s sunny here, and it looks even more so because of the light reflecting off of the yellow-orange walls that surround my house. The trees are waving in the wind, whether to tell me hi or to get out and do something, I don’t know. I have plans to read “To Kill A Mockingbird” today, but I might finish my Ranger’s Apprentice book first…
But then again, there’s this gnome book I also want to read today… I might do all three. I have the time today. It’s anything but quiet in my house, but I’m used to it, I’ll probably just sit up on the kitchen counter and read and drink some coffee. Later though, I want to write some first.
I realized the other day how much easier it is for me to write poems than songs… Songs are difficult. You have an average of 3 and a half minutes to get your point across. To make the listener feel what you’re feeling, and communicate in so short a time. It’s honestly quite stressful. But poems, poems can be long or short, and they just have to rhyme, doesn’t matter if you get the time off or not. There’s no guitar solo, no keyboard riff, just the pen scratching the paper.
I really like that sound, actually, of my fountain pen scratching the paper… It’s a satisfying sound. Probably the way a musician feels when he plays the last chord, sings the last note. And it’s done. There is a piece of art.
Is art made for the ordinary people? Or is it made for the artists? I’ve been asking myself this question lately… The majority of people who listen to music want to be musicians… The majority of art lovers want to be painters or sketchers. The majority of people who read books want to be authors.
So who is the art made for? Is it made for everyone? I think so… But I think the apprentices in the craft catch the hidden meanings, the small smiles that the makers have so deviously hidden in their work. For the ones who know how to find it. So yes, art is for us all, but it’s the apprentices who can appreciate it the best.
Cause they understand. How hard it is to make. People who don’t, just look at it and see the finished product. When a painter looks at a painting, he doesn’t just see the picture, he sees the time, the effort, the soul in it. When a writer reads a book, they see the days spent researching this little fact, shaping this character lovingly, editing every last detail to make sure it’s good. When a musician listens to a song, they hear the hours spent in recording studios, they hear the nights spent scratching their heads over that one lost lyric.
And this has been the thoughts as they’ve popped into my head…