Wasn’t the first child who learned to form his own name with letters a kind of artist? One who was exploring intellect, coordination, and ego. When the child held that fat pencil or bright crayon in his fist, then drew those letters on paper, wasn’t he creating a symbol of himself with lines and curves? This is who I am, and no one else is quite the same.

There is art in the statement, and in the accomplishment.

What about the woman who managed to put a hot meal on the table in the evening? To a cordon bleu chef, this might be a pedestrian feat, but to those who were baffled by the directions on a can of condensed soup, having that meat loaf, and string beans hit the table in unison was a great and mysterious art.

But without the audience, ready and willing to consume the art, it becomes congealed leftovers to be dumped…

It isn’t only the artist holding the brush and vision who paints the picture, it’s those who look and see the power and the beauty, the strength and the passion who bring brushstroke and color to life.    “Excerpt from Key of Light”

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by | January 11, 2013 · 12:33 am

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