I have a painting in my house, a real work of art. I watched it come to life--live, in an hour at a jazz show one Wednesday night. The whole experience surrounded me and swallowed me into it. Jazz notes leaping and running, and soaring and diving, like children on a playground. My ears filled with the joy. But also the motion, the movement, the energy of the performers. This was visual and visceral. Seeing the guy on the side hugging his saxophone as they danced together. The front man made jubilant declarations with his golden horn. The bass player in the back held them together and moved them along--like an engine to this glory train. And the drummer--I saw him as in a kitchen, shaking in the salt, mixing in spices--stirring and baking and beating until all was to his liking. Fully equipped with all the right tools and technique. My eyes are feasting.
And then the painter beside. Colors, brushes turning, she herself a passionate dance, lifted by the music, at one with her art. To be invited into her creative consummation, a gift all its own. I take it in, my heart bursting. The painting is now home with me. I feel it all again in my heart. It hangs as a portal to that night.
True confession: I am afraid to look directly at it.
I'm afraid that the facts and details of it will jar me from the heart of it. More than anything I want to remember the dance and the magic and the mystery of that night.
It was the energy and intimacy of the creative process that was the real gift, and I hold it in myself like a treasure. The painting itself is truly beautiful. But I won't risk losing in this dimension what it represents in another. That's why I only look at it with my heart.
I still see the colors and the brush strokes. I guess you would say my viewing of the art is never an observation (never analytical, never only with my eyes), but always an interaction--which transports me to an experience. And flows like new blood in me again. The heart of the art. Powerful and free, life-giving.
Art in motion can never be contained on a canvas. I honor its breathing and invitation to an other place.
