Ineluctable modality?

Life is good but it is nothing. Nothing there that can be touched. Nothing in itself itself, but to its end, itself itself, it can be so much more.

You bring to it a drop of dye, a touch of red, a blast of orange. A sketch to nothing something more. First with frightened, unsure strokes, something of a line is woke, of one then two, then maybe more till all do form a single point. When life is kept a drop of art, of one then two then maybe more, then suddenly that pasty blur fulfills its passion, grows its clothes, and bursts itself to something more, so very more. Still we tremble, still we cower, and lose ourselves in mundane beats. We hold instead to ashen ground as life is put to stilts. But here i say start! Release! Let go of that blasted grey. It must be done, it must be done!, for only then, from this uncertain nothing, will something then begin.

So troubling though the act may be, that terrible beauty to which he spoke, its frightening burden is agreed. And with that shake is took the dare to take the pallet in one's own hand and stare the canvas fearlessly. To look upon its likeness now not as a foreign, pallid shade, but admit of it for what it is, and where it does exist. Inside of you and me and him and she, and nothing more and nothing less. The single burden that we hold, that we may choose, as its author, to bring its beauty to our stage.

That is what they said. He and he and they and she and all of them worth their salt they tried to say in so many words or none at all. Its all the same and not at all and that is what it is is art.
- posted by Sigurd8/14/2004 04:03:00 PM