Art is personal, autobiographical. The erudition of one’s perception may not exceed the loftiness of one’s striving, and vice versa. The depth of one’s pain cannot exceed the height of one’s joy. A life lived vicariously cannot produce art. A life without passion, devotion, adoration, sacrifice, commitment, obsession, pain, and joy cannot create art.
In every intelligible reality, in belief rendered viable, the place of sacrifice, the wound, must be found. A being is only touched at the point of vulnerability, at that time and place where it succumbs. The wounds of injury, hurt, pain, suffering, grief, anguish, agony, distress, ordeal, trauma are the places the light enters you, to heal you. Darkness eclipses. Darkness shields. Light elucidates. Light reveals. Darkness, through, is not blackness, nor is light, whiteness. As interest, fascination, infatuation, obsession, love, all lie in mystery rather than identity, the light here but betrays the confidentiality of anonymity. There may be fifty shades of white, and fifty shades of black, but white is not always light and black is not always dark. There are no grays; no fences upon which to falter, to cower in indecision; no closets in which to hide. To restore to wholeness, the concealment and invention of the dark must find harmony with the honesty and reality of the light.
The darkness to which we return in sleep, is a deepness, an extremity, an intensity, also not a blackness. In sleep, though the wounds may be soothed, the scars remain upon awakening, reminders of the challenges we have faced, the lessons we have learned, the triumphs we have won. Art personified.