The concentration that is
When I focus to submit
Is utter freedom.
To create from the two
Is to be split into a thousand different opinions
Judgement rises from self
First
And turns like Ouroboros
To consume my own art
Until there is nothing left
But a hungry mouth
That is never fed
For art feeds my soul
Yet the ego falls
To the sound of all the words
That have ever been spoken through history
About creators
I step back from a piece of work
And it begins in the mind with “I made that“
It begins with the claim
The “I”
At least for me
And it has always been
A resounding victory by self defeat
But the cricket in the grass
At 3am has nothing to do with “I”
And the sparrow that weaves its hopping way
Between fifty odd tables a day
In an outdoor cafe
Or catches the whirring insect in the last rays of sunset
Evading the crows
Evading the toes in boots that would kick it
Fulfills the promise of my classroom nuns long ago
That not even the smallest bird in the field
Will go hungry
Go lightly child go lightly
Knowing it has never been about being talented
But rather the magic always lies
In the connection
Art has nothing to do with talent, it’s the enjoyment of connection to a source that everyone knows, many deny, but everyone knows, at their deepest level – simply is.
I read somewhere that for most of history “anonymous” was female. But perhaps anonymous were also the people who knew that their talent didn’t create the work, their connection did and enjoyed the connection so much that they simply let it be whatever it wanted to be.
