I suppose that one of Art's great lessons is not to take even our pain personally... since in art the personal is universal.
By association, I think of these tragic-romantic words by the father of Existentialism, Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard:
What is a poet? A suffering man whose lips are so fashioned that anguish is transformed into ravishing music.
I'm entranced by this line of thought, about the relationship between art and pain, between pain and our yearning for God. It's all so (terribly)beautiful…
Perhaps, at the heart of all unhappiness is a crisis of love: of self, others or the Divine.
Here’s a short poem that I wrote, while contemplating this paradox:
Overheard in a dream
I have been lavishly gifted with a pain
as thick and rich as oil paint
By pushing it around the page
I have learned to make Art.
Slow-drying stuff oil paint,
varnish may be added later.
If you enjoyed my short meditation, above,I hope you’ll consider exploring my
books
