Forgiveness

Source: Favim

Forgiveness.

The ability to forgive oneself. Stop here for a few breaths and think about this, because it is the key to making art and very possibly the key to finding any semblance of happiness in life. Every time I have set out to translate the book (or story, or hopelessly long essay) that exists in such brilliant detail on the big screen of my limbic system onto a piece of paper (which, let’s face it, was once a towering tree crowned with leaves and a home to birds), I grieve for my own lack of talent and intelligence. Every. Single. Time. Were I smarter, more gifted, I could pin down a closer facsimile of the wonders I see. I believe that, more than anything else, this grief of constantly having to face down our own inadequacies is what keeps people from being writers. Forgiveness, therefore, is key. I can’t write the book I want to write, but I can and will write the book I am capable of writing. Again and again throughout the course of my life I will forgive myself.

~ Ann Patchett

Forgiveness

Source: Favim

Forgiveness.

The ability to forgive oneself. Stop here for a few breaths and think about this, because it is the key to making art and very possibly the key to finding any semblance of happiness in life. Every time I have set out to translate the book (or story, or hopelessly long essay) that exists in such brilliant detail on the big screen of my limbic system onto a piece of paper (which, let’s face it, was once a towering tree crowned with leaves and a home to birds), I grieve for my own lack of talent and intelligence. Every. Single. Time. Were I smarter, more gifted, I could pin down a closer facsimile of the wonders I see. I believe that, more than anything else, this grief of constantly having to face down our own inadequacies is what keeps people from being writers. Forgiveness, therefore, is key. I can’t write the book I want to write, but I can and will write the book I am capable of writing. Again and again throughout the course of my life I will forgive myself.

~ Ann Patchett

The Art of Disappearing

Source: Favim 

The moon that broke on the fencepost will not hold.

Desire will not hold. Memory will not hold.

The house you grew up in; its eaves; its attic will not hold.

The still lives and the Botticellis will not hold.

The white peaches in the bowl will not hold.

Something is always about to happen.

You get married, you change your name,

and the sun you wore like a scarf on your wrist has vanished.

It is an art, this ever more escaping grasp of things;

imperatives will not still it – no stay or wait or keep

to seize the disappeared and hold it clear, like pain.

So tell the car idling in the street to go on;

tell the skirmish of chesspieces to go on;

tell the scraps of paper, the lines to go on.

It is winter: that means the blossoms are gone,

that means the days are getting shorter.

And the dark water flows endlessly on.

~ Sarah Holland-Batt

The Art of Disappearing

Source: Favim 

The moon that broke on the fencepost will not hold.

Desire will not hold. Memory will not hold.

The house you grew up in; its eaves; its attic will not hold.

The still lives and the Botticellis will not hold.

The white peaches in the bowl will not hold.

Something is always about to happen.

You get married, you change your name,

and the sun you wore like a scarf on your wrist has vanished.

It is an art, this ever more escaping grasp of things;

imperatives will not still it – no stay or wait or keep

to seize the disappeared and hold it clear, like pain.

So tell the car idling in the street to go on;

tell the skirmish of chesspieces to go on;

tell the scraps of paper, the lines to go on.

It is winter: that means the blossoms are gone,

that means the days are getting shorter.

And the dark water flows endlessly on.

~ Sarah Holland-Batt

The Conundrum of the Workshops

When the flush of a newborn sun fell first on Eden’s green and gold,   

Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mold;   

And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,   

Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves: “It’s pretty, but is it Art?”   

   

Wherefore he called to his wife and fled to fashion his work anew— 

The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;   

And he left his lore to the use of his sons—and that was a glorious gain   

When the Devil chuckled: “Is it Art?” in the ear of the branded Cain.   

   

They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,   

Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: “It’s striking, but is it Art?” 

The stone was dropped by the quarry-side, and the idle derrick swung,   

While each man talked of the aims of art, and each in an alien tongue.   

   

They fought and they talked in the north and the south, they talked and they fought in the west,

Till the waters rose on the jabbering land, and the poor Red Clay had rest—   

Had rest till the dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,  

And the Devil bubbled below the keel: “It’s human, but is it Art?”   

   

The tale is old as the Eden Tree—as new as the new-cut tooth—   

For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;   

And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,   

The Devil drum on the darkened pane: “You did it, but was it Art?”  

   

We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,   

We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yolk of an addled egg,   

We know that the tail must wag the dog, as the horse is drawn by the cart;   

But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: “It’s clever, but is it Art?”   

   

When the flicker of London’s sun falls faint on the club-room’s green and gold,  

The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mold—   

They scratch with their pens in the mold of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start   

When the Devil mutters behind the leaves: “It’s pretty, but is it art?”   

   

Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the four great rivers flow,   

And the wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago, 

And if we could come when the sentry slept, and softly scurry through,   

By the favor of God we might know as much—as our father Adam knew.

~ Rudyard Kipling

The Conundrum of the Workshops

When the flush of a newborn sun fell first on Eden’s green and gold,   

Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mold;   

And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,   

Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves: “It’s pretty, but is it Art?”   

   

Wherefore he called to his wife and fled to fashion his work anew— 

The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;   

And he left his lore to the use of his sons—and that was a glorious gain   

When the Devil chuckled: “Is it Art?” in the ear of the branded Cain.   

   

They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,   

Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: “It’s striking, but is it Art?” 

The stone was dropped by the quarry-side, and the idle derrick swung,   

While each man talked of the aims of art, and each in an alien tongue.   

   

They fought and they talked in the north and the south, they talked and they fought in the west,

Till the waters rose on the jabbering land, and the poor Red Clay had rest—   

Had rest till the dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,  

And the Devil bubbled below the keel: “It’s human, but is it Art?”   

   

The tale is old as the Eden Tree—as new as the new-cut tooth—   

For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;   

And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,   

The Devil drum on the darkened pane: “You did it, but was it Art?”  

   

We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,   

We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yolk of an addled egg,   

We know that the tail must wag the dog, as the horse is drawn by the cart;   

But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: “It’s clever, but is it Art?”   

   

When the flicker of London’s sun falls faint on the club-room’s green and gold,  

The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mold—   

They scratch with their pens in the mold of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start   

When the Devil mutters behind the leaves: “It’s pretty, but is it art?”   

   

Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the four great rivers flow,   

And the wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago, 

And if we could come when the sentry slept, and softly scurry through,   

By the favor of God we might know as much—as our father Adam knew.

~ Rudyard Kipling

The Art of Blessing the Day

Source: Favim

This is the blessing for rain after drought:
Come down, wash the air so it shimmers,
a perfumed shawl of lavender chiffon.
Let the parched leaves suckle and swell.
Enter my skin, wash me for the little
chrysalis of sleep rocked in your plashing.
In the morning the world is peeled to shining.

This is the blessing for sun after long rain:
Now everything shakes itself free and rises.
The trees are bright as pushcart ices.
Every last lily opens its satin thighs.
The bees dance and roll in pollen
and the cardinal at the top of the pine
sings at full throttle, fountaining.

This is the blessing for a ripe peach:
This is luck made round. Frost can nip
the blossom, kill the bee. It can drop,
a hard green useless nut. Brown fungus,
the burrowing worm that coils in rot can
blemish it and wind crush it on the ground.
Yet this peach fills my mouth with juicy sun.

This is the blessing for the first garden tomato:
Those green boxes of tasteless acid the store
sells in January, those red things with the savor
of wet chalk, they mock your fragrant name.
How fat and sweet you are weighing down my palm,
warm as the flank of a cow in the sun.
You are the savor of summer in a thin red skin.

This is the blessing for a political victory:
Although I shall not forget that things
work in increments and epicycles and sometime
leaps that half the time fall back down,
let's not relinquish dancing while the music
fits into our hips and bounces our heels.
We must never forget, pleasure is real as pain.

The blessing for the return of a favorite cat,
the blessing for love returned, for friends'
return, for money received unexpected,
the blessing for the rising of the bread,
the sun, the oppressed. I am not sentimental
about old men mumbling the Hebrew by rote
with no more feeling than one says gesundheit.

But the discipline of blessings is to taste
each moment, the bitter, the sour, the sweet
and the salty, and be glad for what does not
hurt. The art is in compressing attention
to each little and big blossom of the tree
of life, to let the tongue sing each fruit,
its savor, its aroma and its use.

Attention is love, what we must give
children, mothers, fathers, pets,
our friends, the news, the woes of others.
What we want to change we curse and then
pick up a tool. Bless whatever you can
with eyes and hands and tongue. If you
can't bless it, get ready to make it new.

~ Marge Piercy

The Art of Blessing the Day

Source: Favim

This is the blessing for rain after drought:
Come down, wash the air so it shimmers,
a perfumed shawl of lavender chiffon.
Let the parched leaves suckle and swell.
Enter my skin, wash me for the little
chrysalis of sleep rocked in your plashing.
In the morning the world is peeled to shining.

This is the blessing for sun after long rain:
Now everything shakes itself free and rises.
The trees are bright as pushcart ices.
Every last lily opens its satin thighs.
The bees dance and roll in pollen
and the cardinal at the top of the pine
sings at full throttle, fountaining.

This is the blessing for a ripe peach:
This is luck made round. Frost can nip
the blossom, kill the bee. It can drop,
a hard green useless nut. Brown fungus,
the burrowing worm that coils in rot can
blemish it and wind crush it on the ground.
Yet this peach fills my mouth with juicy sun.

This is the blessing for the first garden tomato:
Those green boxes of tasteless acid the store
sells in January, those red things with the savor
of wet chalk, they mock your fragrant name.
How fat and sweet you are weighing down my palm,
warm as the flank of a cow in the sun.
You are the savor of summer in a thin red skin.

This is the blessing for a political victory:
Although I shall not forget that things
work in increments and epicycles and sometime
leaps that half the time fall back down,
let's not relinquish dancing while the music
fits into our hips and bounces our heels.
We must never forget, pleasure is real as pain.

The blessing for the return of a favorite cat,
the blessing for love returned, for friends'
return, for money received unexpected,
the blessing for the rising of the bread,
the sun, the oppressed. I am not sentimental
about old men mumbling the Hebrew by rote
with no more feeling than one says gesundheit.

But the discipline of blessings is to taste
each moment, the bitter, the sour, the sweet
and the salty, and be glad for what does not
hurt. The art is in compressing attention
to each little and big blossom of the tree
of life, to let the tongue sing each fruit,
its savor, its aroma and its use.

Attention is love, what we must give
children, mothers, fathers, pets,
our friends, the news, the woes of others.
What we want to change we curse and then
pick up a tool. Bless whatever you can
with eyes and hands and tongue. If you
can't bless it, get ready to make it new.

~ Marge Piercy

The Lie

Source: Unknown/Favim

Art begins with a lie
The separation is you plus me plus what we make 
Look into lightbulb, blink, sun’s in your eye

I want a rare sky
vantage point free from misconception 
Art begins with a lie

Nothing to lose, spontaneous rise 
of reflection, paint the picture
of a lightbulb, or eye the sun

How to fuel the world, then die 
Distance yourself from artfulness 
How? Art begins with a lie

The audience wants to cry
when the actors are real & passionate
Look into footlight, then feed back to eye

You fluctuate in an artful body
You try to imitate the world’s glory
Art begins with a lie
That’s the story, sharp speck in the eye.

~ Anne Waldman

The Lie

Source: Unknown/Favim

Art begins with a lie
The separation is you plus me plus what we make 
Look into lightbulb, blink, sun’s in your eye

I want a rare sky
vantage point free from misconception 
Art begins with a lie

Nothing to lose, spontaneous rise 
of reflection, paint the picture
of a lightbulb, or eye the sun

How to fuel the world, then die 
Distance yourself from artfulness 
How? Art begins with a lie

The audience wants to cry
when the actors are real & passionate
Look into footlight, then feed back to eye

You fluctuate in an artful body
You try to imitate the world’s glory
Art begins with a lie
That’s the story, sharp speck in the eye.

~ Anne Waldman

Quote on cooking

Source: The Sun

Cooking is an art and patience - a virtue... Careful shopping, fresh ingredients and an unhurried approach are nearly all you need. There is one more thing - love. Love for food and love for those you invite to your table. With a combination of these things you can be an artist - not perhaps in the representational style of a Dutch master, but rather more like Gauguin, the naïve, or Van Gogh, the impressionist. Plates or pictures of sunshine taste of happiness and love.

~ Keith Floyd

Quote on cooking

Source: The Sun

Cooking is an art and patience - a virtue... Careful shopping, fresh ingredients and an unhurried approach are nearly all you need. There is one more thing - love. Love for food and love for those you invite to your table. With a combination of these things you can be an artist - not perhaps in the representational style of a Dutch master, but rather more like Gauguin, the naïve, or Van Gogh, the impressionist. Plates or pictures of sunshine taste of happiness and love.

~ Keith Floyd

Quote on making

Credit: Alex Stoddard

The compelling thing about making art or making anything, I suppose, is the moment when the vaporous, insubstantial idea becomes a solid there, a thing, a substance in a world of substances. Circe, Nimbue, Artemis, Athena, all the old sorceresses: they must have known the feeling as they transformed mere men into fabulous creatures, stole the secrets of the magicians, disposed armies: ah, look, there it is, the new thing.  Call it a swine, a war, a laurel tree. Call it art. The magic I can make is small magic now, deferred magic. Every day I work, but nothing ever materializes. I feel like Penelope, weaving and unweaving.

~ Audrey Niffenegger

Quote on making

Credit: Alex Stoddard

The compelling thing about making art or making anything, I suppose, is the moment when the vaporous, insubstantial idea becomes a solid there, a thing, a substance in a world of substances. Circe, Nimbue, Artemis, Athena, all the old sorceresses: they must have known the feeling as they transformed mere men into fabulous creatures, stole the secrets of the magicians, disposed armies: ah, look, there it is, the new thing.  Call it a swine, a war, a laurel tree. Call it art. The magic I can make is small magic now, deferred magic. Every day I work, but nothing ever materializes. I feel like Penelope, weaving and unweaving.

~ Audrey Niffenegger

Quote on acceptance

Source: Unknown/Favim.com

Gracious acceptance is an art - an art which most never bother to cultivate. We think that we have to learn how to give, but we forget about accepting things, which can be much harder than giving.... Accepting another person's gift is allowing him to express his feelings for you.

~ Alexander McCall Smith

Quote on acceptance

Source: Unknown/Favim.com

Gracious acceptance is an art - an art which most never bother to cultivate. We think that we have to learn how to give, but we forget about accepting things, which can be much harder than giving.... Accepting another person's gift is allowing him to express his feelings for you.

~ Alexander McCall Smith

The Art of Storm-riding

Source: Unknown/favim.com

I could not decipher the living riddle of my body
put it to sleep when it hungered, and overfed it
when time came to dream

I nearly choked on the forked tongue of my spirit
between the real and the ideal, rejecting the one
and rejected by the other

I still have not mastered that art of storm-riding
without ears to apprehend howling winds
or eyes for rolling waves

Always the weather catches me unawares, baffled
by maps, compass, stars and the entire apparatus
of bearings or warning signals

Clutching at driftwood, eyes screwed shut, I tremble
hoping the unhinged night will pass and I remember
how once I shielded my flame.

~ Yahia Lababidi

The Art of Storm-riding

Source: Unknown/favim.com

I could not decipher the living riddle of my body
put it to sleep when it hungered, and overfed it
when time came to dream

I nearly choked on the forked tongue of my spirit
between the real and the ideal, rejecting the one
and rejected by the other

I still have not mastered that art of storm-riding
without ears to apprehend howling winds
or eyes for rolling waves

Always the weather catches me unawares, baffled
by maps, compass, stars and the entire apparatus
of bearings or warning signals

Clutching at driftwood, eyes screwed shut, I tremble
hoping the unhinged night will pass and I remember
how once I shielded my flame.

~ Yahia Lababidi

Encouragement

Photo credit: krystle from morguefile.com

If you make art, people will talk about it. Some of the things they say will be nice, some won’t. You’ll already have made that art, and when they’re talking about the last thing you did, you should already be making the next thing.
If bad reviews (of whatever kind) upset you, just don’t read them. It’s not like you’ve signed an agreement with the person buying the book to exchange your book for their opinion.
Do whatever you have to do to keep making art. I know people who love bad reviews, because it means they’ve made something happen and made people talk; I know people who have never read any of their reviews. It’s their call. You get on with making art.

~ Neil Gaiman

Encouragement

Photo credit: krystle from morguefile.com

If you make art, people will talk about it. Some of the things they say will be nice, some won’t. You’ll already have made that art, and when they’re talking about the last thing you did, you should already be making the next thing.
If bad reviews (of whatever kind) upset you, just don’t read them. It’s not like you’ve signed an agreement with the person buying the book to exchange your book for their opinion.
Do whatever you have to do to keep making art. I know people who love bad reviews, because it means they’ve made something happen and made people talk; I know people who have never read any of their reviews. It’s their call. You get on with making art.

~ Neil Gaiman