Since ever, in China, bamboo farmers have planted baby bamboo shoots deep into the ground. And then, for three years, nothing happens. But the farmers will work, diligently watering the shoot, spreading hay and manure, waiting patiently, even though nothing is sprouting up. They simply have faith. And then, one day, the bamboo will shoot up and grow up to thirty feet in a month. It just blasts into the sky.
Some things cannot be forced. For some processes, time is the only missing ingredient. Any small, sustainable artist-fan community works like this. Entrepreneurship works like this. You must prepare the ground. So you tend to your relationships on a nonstop basis, you abide by the slow, ongoing task, going out there like a faithful farmer, landing in the unseeable bamboo shoot.
There’s years and years of authentic work, tons of nonmonetary exchanges, massive net-tightening, an endless collection of important moments. Good art is made, good art is shared, help is offered, ears are bent, emotions are exchanged, the compost of real, deep connection is sprayed all over the fields.
Love and respect your own hard work. The dream won’t take any longer to become reality, than the bamboo shoot. It will blast into the sky!
Rhapsody II – Bronze sculpture by Angela Treat Lyon
We meet different people at networking gatherings, parties. Some will flaunt their work, “we bring such & such service to the society, it helps many people”, or, “…ever since we went green, it has brought the pollution percentage down by….” ” we are expert consultants for ….” or the pompous ones, “we are fixing the ozone layer..”It’s always directed to the good their jobs are offering to the society, and hence justifying their big salaries, and/or their titles. I notice it is always easier to ask for donations or paid participations in the name of the ultimate good, which is fine too. The public applaud them, even give awards.
Then there are people like us, who don’t feel the need to attach our work to some cause, or larger reason (vague or direct). A few of us happen to be self assured, believers-in-own-art types and simply say, “I write”, or “I paint” , “I design” or the irritating non committal, “I am creative.” The looks we receive – ” Oh yeah….and who pays the bills?” A more concerned friend would even argue (privately), ‘come back to the real world, you need a job!’
All in good faith, I would like to reiterate that we artists do care about the world as well. And maybe we are just simpler, a little individualistic, not verbose about the big picture. Like I may write to bring awareness on an issue, or like my friend who is cleaning her brushes in Belgium right now, creating beauty in amazing hues. Or someone, hiking away completing her 10,000 hours of endurance, or diving to unfold nature treasures. It’s all for this world, we do care as well. If at all, we wait for acknowledgement, or tiny appreciation. or not. Oh ..and, we have to pay our bills too.
Ballerina – Oil painting by Rick Rotante
Somedays I am there
ready, smiling, like a
prelude to the onset of a
every chord of me knows it
feels the rhythm of it.
somedays I have melancholy thoughts
strange spaces in my mind
like I don’t belong to the hour
nor the place.
There is though
a self-sufficing power
while I fill the vacant spaces
become stronger in these
The reason that ‘Sapiens’ survived his much stronger peer (Homo) species, and other dangerous animals for the last 70,000 years is becoz the ‘Wise’ one had an edge over the other cave people, and foragers/hunters – he understood the power of communication, collaboration and he gossiped!! wow.
“The Artist’s Studio” by Tatjana Jablonskaja
Pauses in the studio, are
different to other kind of pauses
contemplative, thoughtful , long or
short bouts of reflection.
stretch those limbs for renewed energy
grace the mind to dream a life
heart fluffed with new passion
a chosen separation to refine the soul.
It is good to fail
perhaps many times
life runs out of tricks.
(Haiku from ‘Bonds of Freedom’)
My dear friend and writer, Shal has just published her fiction novel, and I proudly announce it to my readers that I was a participant in the journey. I am predicting it will be a hit. You can connect with us on facebook, and order your copy of Bonds of Freedom
“So many words get lost. They leave the mouth and lose their courage, wandering aimlessly until they are swept into the gutter like dead leaves. On rainy days, you can hear their chorus rushing past: IwasabeautifulgirlPleasedon’tgoItoobelievemybodyismadeofglass-I’veneverlovedanyoneIthinkofmyselfasfunnyForgiveme….
There was a time when it wasn’t uncommon to use a piece of string to guide words that otherwise might falter on the way to their destinations. Shy people carried a little bunch of string in their pockets, but people considered loudmouths had no less need for it, since those used to being overheard by everyone were often at a loss for how to make themselves heard by someone. The physical distance between two people using a string was often small; sometimes the smaller the distance, the greater the need for the string.
The practice of attaching cups to the ends of string came much later. Some say it is related to the irrepressible urge to press shells to our ears, to hear the still-surviving echo of the world’s first expression. Others say it was started by a man who held the end of a string that was unraveled across the ocean by a girl who left for America.
When the world grew bigger, and there wasn’t enough string to keep the things people wanted to say from disappearing into the vastness, the telephone was invented.
Sometimes no length of string is long enough to say the thing that needs to be said. In such cases all the string can do, in whatever its form, is conduct a person’s silence.”
― Nicole Krauss, The History of Love
“Part of me is made of glass, and also, I love you.”
― Nicole Krauss, The History of Love
I’ve given you enough warning
I’m not a great person to love, with
My shall-we-have-tea-first temper
It’s a destroyer? Me –thinks not.
I’m not just lips, and skin and poems
I’m a mansion, almost an abode
I’ll take you to galleries and sad movies
Kiss you in front of Gustav’s spot.
At times fresh pecks in bird-chirpy gardens
caresses oft’ musty libraries & monuments
The smells you will gather in the recesses
Of your cortex, will keep you hot.
Pillager yes. Like a storm, inflamed
plunging berries soaked in soil inseparable
Exhilarating though, Leave you an earthy & emotional
Toil, stains that do not blot.
Gustav Klimt, The Kiss , 1908–1909