The Distorted Painting

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I want to make a painting. A beautiful one. I have got this canvas that I have been given. I start painting. I make strokes. The painting doesn’t look alright as it develops. And I don’t have another canvas. I look closely at the canvas and see that it was not blank to begin with. I see irregular spots all over it. The spots are distorting my painting. And now there are the strokes I have made. All entangled together. What do I do? I want to paint. I want to paint a beautiful picture. I look at the spots. There are so many of them. And in such weird shapes. My beautiful painting will never come up on this canvas. I don’t want to give up. I want to see on canvas the beauty of the picture in my mind. I want to feel the beauty of painting. I make a stroke on the canvas. A line. I connect two spots. I look closely at them. I make another stroke. A curve this time. That looks decent. I like this. I enjoy making strokes on the messy canvas. I can’t help but keep thinking of the beautiful picture in my mind. It will never come up on this canvas. I want to do more than make meaningless strokes. It is fun. It will never come up on this canvas. I like the little stroke connecting the two spots.

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Random thoughts

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As my fingers trace the contours of a Chopin nocturne on the piano, an overwhelming tenderness originates and spreads throughout my whole body. It seeps into my mind and lifts me up into another world. I have been here before. There is immense beauty here.

It’s not just the sound of the music. The sound of the piano is magnificent, but it’s deeper than that. This is where I have known myself. This is where I have seen myself eye to eye. The beauty I have experienced here is what gives meaning to my life, and living is to share this sense of beauty with people around me. That is the core of me.

This me, the core of me, doesn’t get to be expressed often. Most of the time, when I’m relating with others, it is a fragmented me that presents itself. It is nothing short of living a lie. I wonder why this happens. Is it that when you take up a role, you stop being your entire self? Why do I stop being me?

I rebel. I rebel against taking up roles in life. I long for freedom. Freedom to be me. But I know there is no absolute freedom. To be me, is to share my sense of beauty, and this takes establishing a relationship with my fellow beings. There can be no freedom from roles. Can one take a role lightly and bring the whole of one’s being into it? Can this be done with only certain roles, or is it possible with any role?

What am I longing for that I don’t already have? I know it doesn’t exist out there. It’s inside me. The brilliance is made dim by a dark layer of doubt. Doubt about what is practical and what is ideal. Doubt about where truth ends and fantasy begins.

Art removes the doubt and lets the brilliance shine through clearly. Art makes you whole again. It makes you feel fragmented no longer. It is that which I long for, that which is not out there, but inside me. How do you bring art into everything you do? How do you bring art to the forefront of your life, and centre everything else around it? So that living becomes sharing one’s sense of beauty…