Gone are the days when art conveyed a crisp image of the perfect stick figure, with straight lines and a plump, round head. Now every cloud, every scrap of discarded paper and pencils too short to use are all masterpieces to eyes tired of a bleak image, that the world radiates, facilitated by greed and cruelty. The thing about art is that it’s created wholeheartedly with love and concern; and even when it looks horrible, it’s the most beautiful thing to the artist who brought it into existence.
Art is exquisite because it leaves room for progress, it factors in human error when created by man, and radiates the time its lived through. But the best part of art is that it is everywhere, infinitely present and blindingly bright.
On waking up, the rumpled blanket conveys a sense of aesthetic to the room bathed in the gentle morning glow. The shadows fall on all the right places, enunciating the wrinkles and bringing out the muted lilac tone of the blanket. There’s a cup of tea on the table surrounded by ink leaks and plenty scraps of paper. Everything is a beautiful mess – almost as if someone drew this room right down to the pencil shaving at the corner of my book. As the mirror reflects everything wrong with this sight of human error, the weight of the mortality of all this, suddenly seems a lot more weighing, each moment appearing like a drag on my consciousness. The books will be moved, the tea drunk and the blanket folded. This mortal mess – a result of a precise sequence of events, is bidding farewell to its time to make way for a new day.
As the music makes its way through the house, awakening all who listen, a cold breeze ruffles the leaves on the roadside, like someone would ruffle a child’s hair. The black soil dotted with flakes of brown and adorned with yellow leaves is as bold as a masterpiece created with the utmost dedication.
Life is perfectly unfair, wrong and strays away from its path but one cannot deny there is beauty in stumbling, a certain glow to death and perfection in enduring.
It remains suspended in air; weightless and insignificant but contributing to a significant characteristic of the room that keeps its doors open to all. The room is dusty. As people come and go, each with stories of their own, they bring more dust in than they take out – a remnant of the moment they caused, the story they made a reality. The dust particles are spherical, not perfectly but almost.
Faces drawn in symmetry, lives penned in everlasting ink; the words curving and slanting in the most immaculate way possible, footsteps painted in dust – all of these held captive by walls erected by our own hands.
Art is in every tear shed, every moment lived, every piece of being. The streak of paint someone spilled on the road is art – it stretches across the middle with its non-uniform ends and a colour that looks beautifully faded in the sun, glistening in all its glory. The crumbled metal can at the end of the street, that someone discarded thinking it was of no use anymore, is a piece of art with a peculiar curved structure that can be a ball or a plant pot.
Falling is an art. Loving is an art. Seeing the beauty in the deepest depths is art.
Time is the medium, we are the artists and days are our templates, rendering life to be the biggest masterpiece of all – with each life lived being incredibly articulate, as the one whose heart beat for it all along.
Introverted Thoughts aka D