The Art of Letting Go

There is something masochistic about every artist and the art they create.

They work to ignite passion, spirit, energy and to achieve something unattainable-perfection. Their work is personal, a baring of the soul which can only be viewed or heard through the artists own strokes, notes, words...and when they reach what they finally believe to be the closest they can get to the truth and perfection, they give it up to the highest bidder.

I wonder about this. I wonder about this because I recently witnessed such event. Each day for two weeks, I watched an elderly man in an instrument shop (he specialised in brass instruments) create, polish and perfect his art. In this tiny workshop that I passed each day, I was taken by the tenderness in both the man's face and the touch of his hands. It was truth and perfection. It haunted me.

Why? Because I knew and he knew that very soon he would hand that truth over. He would make the sale and move on. That work of art would become a number in a catalogue. But then it hit me, Art is just that- a memory for the artist, a moment in time recorded forever, but for the new observor, for the collector, for the musician and the reader it is an experience, a passion, an energy, an unmistakable truth which carries on through time. This give me a sense of peace.

So in honour of the man who started the whole thought process, I have written this poem:

The Music Maker

He ran his fingers up-

and then down the cold,

flat surface. His heart

sank-this would only be

his for a short time more-

then someone else's hands

would caress, someone else's

lips would be placed upon

the sweet taste of its

everlasting breath-

but for now he surpressed

a deep sigh and took pleasure

in the simple beauty which

it would eternally possess.

Thoughts as Words, Dear Poitiers

Recently, I spent some time in the French city of Poitiers. I went there with nine other teachers from the East London area. I had such a wonderful experience with the french family I stayed with, the people and streets of Poitiers and the wonderful children in the primary school in which I had my work experience.

However, best of all was the wonderful cafe-bar, where as a group we met every evening. It was a unique and wonderful experience. Here are my thoughts as words:

We meet at the same bar every evening now.

It has become a ritual-even the waitress brings

us our drinks before we ask. There's the exchange

of jovial tales, jokes, banter to the sound of parisian

turkish accordians-

Like us, it is foreign, but feels at home here. The

crowds walk by-shoppers on a humid, sticky

evening with insignificant missions to complete-

while the rest off us enjoy the cool interiors and shaded

seating of this brisk cafe-bar in Poitiers.

Pink-Just not my colour?

Seiously, who knew I'd never learn to drive.

Jacob

Jacob woke up. Somewhere in the distance he knew he could hear rolling thunder, but for now his immediate surroundings remained calm, almost serene, bathed as it was in the thin veil of propitious light.

Taking this as a good omen for the day ahead, Jacob got up. He stood momentarily, without moving, taking in the partially skewed image of his naked body in the mirror opposite and felt the instant need for self gratification. On doing so, the thrill brought him to his knees.

In the shower, he washed his hair, then his body, enjoying the immense heat of the steamy shower-his shrivelled up johnson the only reason he turned off the faucet five minutes and twenty-seven seconds later. He estimated that even three seconds more may have spelt the end of his jovial mornings. He was not to know that ten hours, thirteen minutes and forty-seven seconds later, his very stiff johnson would be on display to the staff of the local coroner's office as a result of his unfortunate death. But for now, he simply got on with his day.

Making coffee was one of the smaller pleasures in life, Jacob surmised as he placed just the right amount of granules in the filter. He delighted in the loud puffs of steam, reminiscent of the trains his grandfather had worked on, and the unmistakable, unbeatable smell of fresh coffee in the morning. He poured the piping liquid in to his travel mug ( bought at a bargain store last winter) placed the lid tightly on top and moved in to the hallway.His coat hung on the rack inside the door. It was a rain mac, of sorts, navy and quite boring really. It had one of those strange draw string hoods that always look ridiculous, but somehow are a good selling point because of the fold away zip compartment.

Jacob carried the travel mug in one hand and his mac in the other, hoping he wouldn't have to use it, knowing that even if he did he wouldn't take out the hood, which made him wonder why he bought it in the first place. Walking at an even pace down the same, familiar street as always, the coat continued to bother him-Why had he bought it? Was it an impulse buy? He couldn't remember, but he knew what he was going to do about it. On passing the next dustbin (there were five in total on his route to work) he casually disposed of the horrid item and the thought of it finally vanished from his mind.


Should I continue this story? Someone let me know.