Dear Art


I came across an old letter I wrote to “Art” years ago. I couldn’t help but smile at my immaturity. I thought I would share with any whom are interested. Enjoy:

Dear Art:

 

I used to think you, in your simplified version, were the producer of the awareness that recognized beauty. However, I see that you are not so singular… so biased. You do not spring from beauty, but from indifference.

 

Is this why the artist appears to employ indifference toward the so-called mundane things of living? Is this why he attempts to empty himself of all things so that he may fill himself with you? And even when he is filled with you, he remains as the overturned empty cup choosing rather to span the expanse of his empty mind than play in the footsteps created by the opinions of mundanity; reality doesn’t seem to exist for the artist; life is but a dream; he sees the wisdom in the child’s hymn.

 

Thinking of you made me think of this: the artist who searches for beauty will only find a portion of you, and therefore his search will never end; his longing is never satisfied. His search becomes his gift and his curse; for he will create beauty, place it wherever he may want it to exist, and then believe it to be an inherent quality of the thing he attached it to; he will confuse himself in order to feel the joy of his creation; he will hope to hold forever what is essentially impermanent; he is not the artist, for he fails to still the moment.

 

You are my guide to living, and I thank you.

 

Sincerely,

 

Eric

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