Poetry
In Art School
the chosen step forward
to answer the call
to painstakingly piece together
that vision that is placed in their hearts.
Struggling to mix the richest color combinations
to capture the most compelling compositions
to master their emotionally expressive textural techniques.
Choosing subjects that speak
from the deepest parts of their being
and then publicly presenting
the very best their weathered hands could enfold.
Hoping someone will say:
"Yes!"
"I get it!"
"I love it!"
"I want it!"
or simply to move a stranger to tears.
Some, if they've dared
to be truly vulnerable
paint their heart on top
of that tense cloth
and allow themselves
to be a public display.
Likely, they've encountered criticism
and mourned misunderstanding
and pushed through the raw humiliation.
Some rare artists
receive glory & are rewarded
while yet breathing.
Few know
the labor of sweat & tears
paved on the way to Opening Night.
Some back down from
the immense challenge
having not the bowels
to withstand the trauma
of so much exposure.
They only display
what is commendable
before their teachers and peers
and water-down the power
of their message.
This is the norm.
But I know of One
who did not withdraw
from His dream.
He took His olive-toned canvas,
let it be stretched & stapled
to sturdy planks of wood.
He allowed it to be slashed
by the signature pallet knife
of His artless enemy.
He allowed the blend
of thick textural stripes
knowing many would overlook
their depth & power.
During Opening Night
He received
little recognition from His peers and
outright rejection from His professors.
His own Father, horrified, didn't even
enter the room where His work hung.
Choosing, instead, to sit on the
other side of the wall.
Those who did stick around
called it "a miserable sight."
Some wept.
His show lasted only
three days & apparently
the pain completely overwhelmed
all of His facilities
until the Artist died.
That abandoned framed piece was next
transferred from its hook
and slipped into a dark attic
hidden under a drop cloth
in some rich man's mansion.
Then
some low ranking art student
who had a thing for
Jewish Expressionism
and life-sized vivid paintings
meandered right into the hidden area.
Who knows how she got there
in the first place.
But the ladder was propped
and the ceiling tile miraculously removed
revealing the secret entrance.
And since she was the curious type,
she scrounged around & found that treasure
near the torn cloth.
Now disturbed by her lack
of true creativity,
the student quit Art School
but was sent back brooding.
She obsessed about that painting
and the others she discovered
by that artist
in that same attic.
She sold all she had,
which was not much,
and bought that home
storing those paintings.
As the rightful owner,
she took the masterpiece down
to the living room
to be hung on top of the mantle
of the fireplace.
And on certain sleepless nights
she lights the fire
& remembers her dream
of that painful painting
and the cage it put around
and the rage that did surround
His growling enemy.
And how truly small that enemy
was compared to the Father
of the Artist.
The One who can be found
at Art Openings
seriously sipping wine
and lovingly munching on
cracker rounds
with the starving artist crowd
He always invites
to His shows
And asks with a tone
both vulnerable & bold
"Do you appreciate MY art?"
and again
"Do YOU appreciate my art?"
And to think
it all started with
a blank canvas
and a dream.
Honey Stone (C) 2008
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