Lord I believe, help my unbelief.
"Yet the LORD longs to be gracious to you; he rises to show you compassion. For the LORD is a God of justice. Blessed are all who wait for him! O people of Zion, who live in Jerusalem, you will weep no more. How gracious he will be when you cry for help! As soon as he hears, he will answer you. Although the Lord gives you the bread of adversity and the water of affliction, your teachers will be hidden no more; with your own eyes you will see them. Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, "This is the way; walk in it."
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Are We Not These Paintings?
What I love about art
is it's terrible beauty
The color and darkness
The joy and terror
It is full and empty
Breathtaking and oppressive
each piece hewn from the mind and soul of someone expressive
And I respect that
Each demonstration may not cause my deep exhalation
But, I respect that person, because they brought their heart, their life out into the open
Some moment born into the world caught their heart and as if they couldn't hold their fingers back from the brush.... They express.
and they are better for it, lighter
Because their expression releases them
And, I get that
Maybe it's the most terrible painting I've ever beheld....
But, I get it
Are we not those paintings?
Terrible, awful, brilliantly canvassed, framed so ornately, meticulously stroked and paint thrown at walls, sculpted of old doorknobs and fishing line
Are we not these sculptures?
Each standing in representation of some victory triumphant, some moment of failure or fault
Some time in their life filled with hope
And just like our humanity, I am drawn in or repelled
Because we all want to be known and exposed and for the layers of our hearts to be held and examined, looked on intentionally and with careful discretion
We create, because we want to be known
We want Him to know, them to know
Show the world something
And who's to say what I think is beautiful is really so,
Because it's constructed of this or that, looks this way, and is defined by me
I am not the creator or the judge of it's validity
I am my own piece
I am splattered with every shade of blue
I am carefully, violently and with pressed fingertips outlined in deep charcoal
My yellows shine behind the silhouette pushing my frame forward to the tip of this ledge, like stars hiding behind the night sky, begging to be released from the captivity of daylight
I am my own piece
So is he
So is she
So are they
How can you say we are not
How can each piece say to the other, you are not art, you are not beautiful, you are not created to be looked at, touched,
you cannot draw others in.
We are these paintings.