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.