reasons to create

I create so I won’t forget the density of a moment, the richness of colours and emotions growing in the cracks of everyday life’s grey concrete.

Sometimes a moment is so beautiful, so intense, so wild and raw that the idea of forgetting its fullness scares me. I wish I was able to capture it in pencil, paints, or a brilliant photograph, knowing I will fail. A picture would never do the multidimensional magic of a moment any fraction of justice.

I create in the hope that others will take the time to understand the way I perceive the world, the weird ways of my inner cosmos.

I don’t see the world the way most people around me do. What they deem beautiful I perceive as sensory overload, loud and clashing and evoking a bad taste in my mouth; while what is wonderful to me in their eyes is trash, boring, mundane, or even so small and trival they don’t notice it at all. I call it the ability to see “the beauty inbetween”, to “create magic” in my mind. Taking pictures of small wonders is my try to guide other people’s view, direct their gaze to the invisible lines my mind draws, connecting thought, sensation, trees and stars and summer hay.

I create to remind people of the beauty that lies in the simple, ordinary things.

The beauty I see can’t be bought from mass-producing factories – at least in most cases – and can’t be foretold in terms of shape, colour, or perfection. Beauty is what happens in tiny corners, in the hands of a child, a foggy morning, between dewy blades of grass and ashy rocks. Beauty isn’t static, visible, but a warm, filling, overwhelmingly enveloping atmosphere of grace, the thankfulness for a friend’s genuine smile and the smell of fresh bread.

I create to deal with personal hardships – with a troubled past, a confusing present, the scary uncertainty of the near future.

Being able to create reminds me that I’m still alive, that I’m not completely broken, because I’m still able to see beauty and feel love and learn friendship. Writing is the way to connect isolated objects, dreams, ideas; and it is the goal, the reason to keep my mind open to the world, the things and people in it. The process of composition, of taking a photograph is meditation and the result the source for new contemplation. I write promises to myself, reminders of feelings, solutions and inconsistencies and chaos.

I create to feel. I create because I feel. I create so others will feel with me. I create to conserve a moment to feel it anew in the future.

 

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Originally written as a response to To be an Artist… on DeviantArt; then the original author challenged me to write it out. The parts in italics are from my original comment, the other lines are my thoughts from today. If you are interested in our little discussion about this longer version, please visit my post on DeviantArt http://fav.me/d87ylfe.

It starts with a word or two. (What I wrote while I waited for my pizza.)

It starts with a word or two, a string of thoughts, a random image, and an empty day will be filled with new poetry. It’s raw, it’s wild, it can’t be forced to grow. Some days will remain emtpy, some will bear threefold fruits.

I want to be made from light and song, bring out the stars with my words

I want to know what creation was like, watch the colours pour into life

I want to know what the world was like when it still was what it was meant to be

I want to know, I want to taste the immense nebulae and every deep, dark creek and crease and fold of time and space

I want to write about all the beauty there is, was, was forgotten and reborn

It starts with words and ends with speechlessness, images too bright and pure and folded in themselves, colours the mind can see but our eyes cannot. Colours twisting into shapes taking up more dimensions than paper and brush and ink and reed can hold, more connections to be made than could be soldered on one wooden board with the finest diamond-sharp tips of midnight tongues.

I want to hold strings of words in my hands, pearls of syllables, hard and soft and round, rolling, rolling

I want to remember the faces, lines of laughter telling stories passing me on the street, manifold

I try to write and sing and live all at the same time, fingers tripping over blurry lines

It started with two simple lines, and it became the plea of help of a soul drowning in a torrent of images unleashed on dry ground, barren land not able to soak up all the wonders as fast as they are poured out, the golden song of dust being washed away too quickly before a microscope could be found to examine every speck down to its poetic make-up of crystal genes.

Thoughts born from interstellar clouds, delivered into bare and empty hands.

 

 

 ~~~

Writing this happened between writing the first paragraph and waiting for the pizza in my oven to be done. I had jotted down these first few words and lines as a Facebook status and then the idea decided to take a walk on the meta-level.