Gem
08-05-2017, 08:15 AM
Even when one goes to draw, write poetry, compose music or write prose, there's never a perfect completion. When does that final brushstroke fall? Why is that one the last and not the one before it or the one which would have come after? What tiny touch marks it as done? If the artist didn't stop somewhere, and call it 'done', the continuing pursuit of perfection would defeat it's own purpose. The beauty of the aesthetic is such that, after a point, adding more destroys it.
It reminds me of a life; a messy complicated thing - good days of happiness and dark days of depression - Feel good about yourself today, but on another day, feel terrible.
Moreso, ups and downs are a simple fact of life. If one wants to fix things, they become that painter who can't make the final stroke, who is compelled to continue correcting all the imperfections, and after a point, begins to destroy the elusive beauty of life.
One can look at thirr own life like a painting, and in it see both flaws and strokes of genius, the strengths and weaknesses of the artist-self, the good and bad of it, the light in the personality and one's own dark side.
It is a life in which one can do the best they can, be the best person they know how to be, be a more mindful and considerate human being, a better listener, a faster runner, a more mature and wise individual, or whatever thing is worked on to improve it. Such building on strength requires seeing ones weaknesses. For example, a runner may have a great finish, but be slow off the blocks, so they work on their take off in order to improve their overall sport.
The whole painting is made of many single brushstrokes. If one wants the best possible finished product, then the brushstroke made now is the most important one, be it the first one, the last one, or any one of the hundreds in between - the quality of the whole thing depends on every stroke, and it's only possible to make this one.
The ones already made are what we have to work with. An artist may stop and look at what has already been done, and after careful appraisal, again touch the canvas in just the right way, but the what the right way is depends on all the brushstrokes which came before.
Every artist knows the mistakes they already made, the bits they could have done better, but they do not stop their work of art because they know their already made errors will inevitably render the end product imperfect - the messy bits will be within it somewhere, perhaps all but invisible to others.
The person is as they are because the brushstrokes of the past formed what now appears. In this sense, one is the sum of all past and the continued art of living includes living with the past.
Then, is one at peace with the brushstrokes they made before now? In one sense we have no choice and must make the most of what we have. I'm sure everyone has problems in life that started with past events, like crude etchings on the psyche. As, the painting includes both the artist's clumsy and deft brushstrokes, which together determine how this stroke is placed.
But, the painter doesn't place a final stroke. One painting is finished, then a new one started, and the person develops as an artist. Some of their weaknesses of the past are honed into strengths, like that runner who made his weak takeoff strong. This person is forever learning of subtle ways the brush moves lightly, boldly, long strokes and small touches, in the skill of their imagination and their deftness of hand.
One day the artist's life ends. Leaving a book half done, a portrait unfinished, a composition incomplete... In their life, nothing was ever perfect, ideals were never met. But the artist's life is in the living of it. The final stroke gladly ends the old, and makes possible the new.
It reminds me of a life; a messy complicated thing - good days of happiness and dark days of depression - Feel good about yourself today, but on another day, feel terrible.
Moreso, ups and downs are a simple fact of life. If one wants to fix things, they become that painter who can't make the final stroke, who is compelled to continue correcting all the imperfections, and after a point, begins to destroy the elusive beauty of life.
One can look at thirr own life like a painting, and in it see both flaws and strokes of genius, the strengths and weaknesses of the artist-self, the good and bad of it, the light in the personality and one's own dark side.
It is a life in which one can do the best they can, be the best person they know how to be, be a more mindful and considerate human being, a better listener, a faster runner, a more mature and wise individual, or whatever thing is worked on to improve it. Such building on strength requires seeing ones weaknesses. For example, a runner may have a great finish, but be slow off the blocks, so they work on their take off in order to improve their overall sport.
The whole painting is made of many single brushstrokes. If one wants the best possible finished product, then the brushstroke made now is the most important one, be it the first one, the last one, or any one of the hundreds in between - the quality of the whole thing depends on every stroke, and it's only possible to make this one.
The ones already made are what we have to work with. An artist may stop and look at what has already been done, and after careful appraisal, again touch the canvas in just the right way, but the what the right way is depends on all the brushstrokes which came before.
Every artist knows the mistakes they already made, the bits they could have done better, but they do not stop their work of art because they know their already made errors will inevitably render the end product imperfect - the messy bits will be within it somewhere, perhaps all but invisible to others.
The person is as they are because the brushstrokes of the past formed what now appears. In this sense, one is the sum of all past and the continued art of living includes living with the past.
Then, is one at peace with the brushstrokes they made before now? In one sense we have no choice and must make the most of what we have. I'm sure everyone has problems in life that started with past events, like crude etchings on the psyche. As, the painting includes both the artist's clumsy and deft brushstrokes, which together determine how this stroke is placed.
But, the painter doesn't place a final stroke. One painting is finished, then a new one started, and the person develops as an artist. Some of their weaknesses of the past are honed into strengths, like that runner who made his weak takeoff strong. This person is forever learning of subtle ways the brush moves lightly, boldly, long strokes and small touches, in the skill of their imagination and their deftness of hand.
One day the artist's life ends. Leaving a book half done, a portrait unfinished, a composition incomplete... In their life, nothing was ever perfect, ideals were never met. But the artist's life is in the living of it. The final stroke gladly ends the old, and makes possible the new.