Chapter 31 Maybe It's All Art

I kick the dust off this slumber, and I lie awake. As I do, I wonder if this art of mine will persevere. Rubbing my eyes, I hear voices saying that really, what I do -- it's not art at all.

But then I argue. I think that it should be, because I like to toy with words and join them together in print, mixing this one with that, to paint something that I cannot speak. These words I choose have no access to my tongue, nor your ears, but somehow they find a way from my fingertips to your eyes. My brush, such as it is, dabs the color of black on white, with just a glimmer of hope that what's left will somehow color your imagination.

Well, alright. Maybe my particular art isn't obvious enough. True art is found in, uhh .. music. I listen to it and I wish I could make it.

Or in museums. I visit real art in museums. And I study it in history.

Maybe theater. I watch as a thespian reveals his art in a play. Or I watch another, as she dances hers in a ballet.

I reach out and touch art, because a sculptor fashions his hands just so.

A poet muses and finds achievement and accolades in the dawn of some tortured awakening. I read it and I know for sure that it's art.

But, what if art was never meant to be defined as some cultural appreciation of finer things or some pleasure to humanity and its senses? What if, instead, it was every good and noble effort rising out of the depth of mankind's ability to create? What if that which is subtle, or crying out -- that which is emanating from some collective passion and giftedness, becomes, well ... art to the eyes and ears of Another?

Like, maybe it’s all art?

An engineer offers his exactness, just as his wife's cleanliness and style splashes a canvas. Together their home is well designed and clean and very hip, and it hangs on the wall of their neighborhood like a priceless Monet.

Another artist paints comfort to the hurting and affirmation as he lifts a slumping shoulder. His mercy rises off the palette, and it pleases the Almighty.

An architect sets the stage, and a builder depicts the skyline.

A physician, immersed in a world of science and sequential practicality is perhaps unaware of the choreography of her healing, and a God who dances in the rhythm of it.

One man fancies himself a teacher, and rightfully so. A gifted orator, his words are perfect cadence, and they spill off his tongue like a melody. They form the greater sum of his intent so students can learn, and in so doing, they render a symphony to the ears of a Father.

So, my hunch is that God knows of this enduring masterpiece; of what hue we’ll paint to accent the whole, of what chord our instruments will play to delight Him, for He alone bequeathed each talent to us. We are artists, each in our own way, and we must find our fatted calf -- to express it and perform it on the stage of His choosing; yes, an altar to bring a sacrifice of who we are in the midst of the art we create.


I sit on the edge of the bed and for now, my arguing is over, because I think this is true.

That, maybe, just maybe .. it's all art.