05.30.25
Maybe I’m not a real artist.
because I’m not brave.
My default mode of thinking is: If I make it through this, then I’ll make art about it. But not before. Before, things are too precarious.
But I would think that the greats—like real great greats—didn’t wait for things to get better before making their art; they didn’t wait to be safe. And I’m just guessing, but maybe that’s part of what made their works great.
Real artists can perceive or suffer hard truths and then exemplify an almost unsung courage when they beautifully express it.
I say “almost” because in a way, even if nobody consciously recognizes how much bravery these great artists have in forging (the) meaning (they sense) in the face of futility—even if no one outright says it—everybody salutes it by lauding their works.
Necessarily so, in my line of thinking here.
Because what I’m saying means that an artist’s truly great stuff has to be made of the stuff of courage. Great art is brave art. Brave, because life is big, scary, and heavy. (All the time! You’re either aware of it or you’re blissfully not. And if you’re not, it’s only a matter of time before you are. And who knows if you’ll make it out alive, much less unscathed, the next time you’re aware of it).
So to look at life in the face and then assume the vulnerability and risk of trying, starting, and God-willing finishing an abiding painting of that face for us other, blinder or more frightened mortals to see… that takes courage.
And I don’t know if I have it.
