I once wondered what drove
A man to pick up a brush
And apply water colors to
A white piece of paper.
This was before I wise;
I owned only my arrogance,
For all the facts in my head
Were first discovered elsewhere.
"Paint is wet, it will destroy
The flimsy paper," I thought.
The paper endured.
I went through my limited
Bits of logic before I resorted
To a sensory argument.
"It doesn't sound like writing."
Oh, how I loved the scratch
Of a pencil against a fresh sheet.
It exhilarated my senses like
Few other things could.
"Furthermore, what good does
Art do? The painter makes
Something and it goes to a
Museum for people to look at.
How can that possibly better
Any part of the world?"
An older artist listened to my
Ramblings with more patience
Than I would credit the human race.
He smiled knowingly, and said to me,
"I have never seen the point of
Writers. They merely shut themselves
Away from everyone else and put
Their opinions on a piece of paper.
How can they possibly benefit the
World? What can they do?"
As my anger rose from deep in
My throat, the artist merely said
To me, "Have you never realized
That art and words are both important?
That one is never better than the other?
Here, I have a challenge for you:
Try to paint. Paint, and then tell me
That art is useless. In the meantime,
I will attempt to write and tell you the same."
So convinced that I was right, I agreed
Without a second thought. I never noticed
The knowing gleam in the old man's eye.
The next morning, I borrowed some paints
And a canvas, intent on proving my point.
Before the first stroke stained the page,
My hand still in motion, I became a believer.
In the heartbeat that it took for my muscles,
Nerves, and synapses to carry out my mind's
Order, I became
The artist,
The canvas,
The brush,
And the space between,
Charged with potential and kinetic energies.
I understood the point of art, to be the art
And to make the art. The painter and the artist.
The painter paints for others. The artist paints
For the outpouring of his soul.
I called the artist to tell him this, and
Found that he had been about to call me.
"I do understand," we said together.
He told me how he had realized the difference
Between writer and storyteller. The storyteller
Wrote for the audience, to entertain them with
A new fable. The writer wrote for both himself
And the story. He told me that he became both.
I relayed my own revelation. He didn't seem
Surprised, but, looking back, I should have
Known that had been his intention all along.
I don't think, however, he had expected to
Discover what drove me as well.
We both became wiser that day.
I still know that I am not wise. I probably
Never will be, but I have tasted the fruits
Of my arrogance, and almost lost a
Beautiful experience because of it.
Arrogance is now ashes in my mouth,
But I have decided to turn it into ink on a page.
Or, perhaps, water colors on canvas.
They are both forms of magic.
