Saturday, March 29, 2014

indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.

I'm writing a lot lately, except most of it's for me. Which is good but also strange. For the first time, I'm hesitant about sharing the letters and lines that make up the shape of my many, ordinary todays. It's not that they're all precious or beautiful, but they are all personal. Vulnerability is something I never eschew. I am a champion for honesty in everything. But sometimes life hits you hard. A car crash out of no here. A job loss. A heart change. Whatever it may be. And when you're left picking up the pieces, you need space to rearrange them just right. Which is difficult when you're putting them out there asking, is this right? Because that asking leaves little space to figure it out.

I'm tired of putting aside my wonderings instead of wandering through. I'll mess up, but you can stumble into your sweet spot through the struggle. They say you never forget to ride a bike and I believe that's true. However, there's a disconnect between your body and your head. The knowledge, the knowing, is in your bones, but you have to remember where it left you. Maybe that's a little like where I'm walking. Deep down, I'm steady, but this searching is on shifting sand and the light is just beginning to rise. The sun is opening and it's finding me picking up pieces that are a little bit bruised.

I don't know what I want. I don't know if I'm slow and steady or a hurricane. A poem or a song. There's a difference and sometimes I feel like I land in the middle. I call myself an oxymoron. I'm analytical and artistic to my bones, I love the solidity of what we know and the wonder of what could be. I cried in an exhibit at the art museum today and didn't realize it until I couldn't swallow.

There's this piece of art by Matisse that's just a few lines. It's called Nu assis, vu de dos, which translated is just Seated Nude, Seen from the Behind. It's simple and clean. Like you could take a pencil, pull the lead down a page, and you'd have the same piece. I'm finally past believing the appearance of grace is an honest representation of ease. Ballet's roots are snug in my life to this day, and one of the seeds that's grown is an understanding of the process. To make simple the complex, honest the confusing, beautiful the questions -- that is where good art lies.

The drawing was in a exhibition called, Women as Muse in the age of Matisse, and it was fascinating seeing the ways different artists interpreted women as a subject. Something I loved in the end of the description was an assertion that the views of the various painters were only opinions of those men. I wish I had written the description down, but the general gist was that the images were just that, images. Despite the artists best attempts at deciphering women as a muse, the end products were only ideals, depictions of differing thought processes, explanations, and even questions. I think that's beautiful. Some art tries to label reality as black and white, but our realities are best seen through collection of ideas, questions, not facts. Art unifies and connects when it's borne out of, this is what I see, tell me what you see too.

The piece by Matisse made me pause and stare. There's a loneliness in the image, a solitude that's matched the rhythm of my days. I wondered about the sitter. Was she lonely or did Matisse only give her that appearance? What did he see? What did he leave out? Matisse once said to his students, "One must always search for the desire of the line, where it wishes to enter or where to die away." and I've been thinking about it all day. In art and writing and life. I'm searching for the interesections and trying to find solid ground for that line to lay. Meanwhile, I'm meandering and mulling, I'm wondering and wandering. I'm trying to figure out the shape of this life I'm living. Where it's leading and what path it may take. This I can say, "The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance." That's a promise I believe no matter what waits up ahead.

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