Author: Miyuko Yamada PM
This is a little rant I did when I got into one of my thinking moods. It is about artists, composers, and writers, and how each is individually phenomenal.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Words: 1,800 - Reviews: 1 - Favs: 1 - Published: 10-14-12 - Status: Complete - id: 3065633
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Hello! This is very different from what I normally do, but a good author does not restrain themselves to just one thing, so I decided to venture out, and do this little essay-rant thing. Enjoy, my lovelies~
Artist, composers, and writers are some of the most spectacular people who will ever walk this earth. They have what is practically an entirely new universe swimming in their heads at all time, and somehow walk among others, maintaining a moderately average appearance amidst having all this brilliance locked in their minds, and spawn new ideas and thoughts like trees grow leafs in spring. More, they create something out of nothing. They look at a blank sheet a paper, or a pale canvas, and see something when the rest of us see nothing but white. They are almost like modern-day alchemist who have obtained the philosopher's stone: a greater imagination then most people could fathom.
Art has been around since almost the dawn of time, and has been well respected by all. Art was a way to tell a story, and somehow, artist can take those images planted in their minds, and make them came to life with the simplest of tools. It is astonishing, the euphoria looking at a beautiful painting can give you. There are secrets in art, hidden meanings, and stories captured in one moment, one simple stroke of a brush. The artist can lock things away in their paintings and sculptures that will go unnoticed for centuries. I can imagine that they are looking down at the person making the discovery, from where ever you imagine them to be, and smiling, and thinking "finally, someone's got it!". The artist will spend countless hours toiling over a piece, clothing stained with paint, hands brown and cracking with clay, or fine white dust in their hair making it look almost white. And then, when they look at their finished masterpiece, may it be a sketch of a person not even knowing they were being sketched, or the Sistine Chapel, they can breathe a sigh of relief, and look with weary, heavy eyes. They can hope that, if revealed to others, that it will be praised, and they will look on it with mystification, and question "how did you do that?", a question that I believe will never be able to be honestly answered. All they can say in return is "you just don't understand, you're not an artist". However, the fatal flaw of the artist, and possible even all creators, is that there is never a "good enough", and there is always a pressure to do more, do better, and they will continue to pursue until their death. More than the other, I believe this is the artists' heaviest burden to bare. No doubt there is an obvious talent in art, one of those things that maybe some people are just born with, and yes, it can also be a learned skill, but those without the natural born talent, will always strive, even more than those with the talent, to catch up, like a younger brother does to the older. Occasionally, the artist simply can't do better, but yet they will strive, and not give up. There is never a true "good enough" for the true artist. Always one more thing to paint, and "I could've done this", so on and so forth.
The composer may not have been around as long, but in some sense, they have. Maybe it was not our ideal version of a composer, but since music has been around since art, so has the composer. The composer, however, is so very different from the artist. Yes, I grant you, they are both "artists", but the artist only sees pictures in his head; the composer hears music. And somehow, they know the notes of the melody in their head; they can name them like they are words. Maybe not right away, and it may take countless hours seated in front of the piano, or plucking a violin, or what have you, but they will get it, and soon they will write it out like a text that only a few can understand. The composer does not need words as the writer does, for they convey emotion, hatred, love, joy, happiness, and every thing that a human can ever feel, simply by using a series of wavelengths, and by taking days to figure out what series of notes matches the tune inside their mind. Many have gone mad from the music in their head, for it is inescapable in a way. The artist can think of other images, but a composer will have the song stuck in their head until the day they die. When you look at a piece of art, you instantly see it. Maybe not the fine details, or the hidden meanings that make it a masterpiece, but regardless, all of the artist's work is shown when you open your eyes. However, the musician has a staff on which he writes, and writes in a language that transcends all language barriers. But the language is hardly ever spoken, and reading the notes is something that must be learned. A Polish flutist who's never spoken a word of English can sit next to an English flutist, and they can look a a piece of paper with markings that are absurd to those who cannot read it, and both get the same thing from it. They create something, play something that words simply cannot describe. Until the music is played, non-musicians will have no idea of what it means, no idea of it's glory, and calming nature, or what fury it conveys, or how it can sadden one simply from the fist note. Bless the musicians who play it, for it is up to them to convey the music to the listening, and guess what the composer meant by the notes. As Beethoven began to grow deaf, he could be seen pounding on the piano as loud as he could, ear pressed against it, in a desperate hope to hear his creation. Beethoven was composing even as he was deaf, and could not hear the music he composed, and could only hope that the musicians understood him. The composer is doomed to live in a constant state of question. Is it right, what he is writing? Does it match the tune in his head exactly? Will the musicians understand him? Will the audience? Is it pleasing to other ears, or is it just pleasing to his?
Finally there is the writer, the one who lives with another world in his head. The writer has not always been "the writer" in title, they have been the story teller, the one who kept the secrets of the tribe, and the one who passed the stories down from generation to generation. To some extent, they are the reason we even have writers now. Humans have always had the need to tell stories, but sometimes they are more than stories; they are our attempt to understand the world in which we live, to figure out how we got here, why we are here, and writing shows us all of this much more than painting and music can. An artist can only use a certain space to show their painting, to show the image in their mind. The composer is limited to a certain number of notes, and if it sounds pleasing to the ear. But the writer on the other hand has no limits. They can write whatever they want, make it as long as they want, and create a completely different universe that, if properly described, the reader can escape to. You can look at a painting, and lose yourself in a song, but a book can take you places that the others never could. A book can show you things you would've never though of, and you can spend hours upon hours reading something, and slowly, you feel like you are there, like you are a part of that universe the author has created, only using words. No pictures necessary, because just the words can take you to the farthest reaches of the universe and back again. There is of course the language barrier that music and art never have to deal with, but that is a welcomed barrier, that is so easily overcome today. Now we can read books written when there was just beginning to be written language in Japan. And a majority of books are written in English, a language with far more words than the others, and the authors take note of this, and will spend far too long stressing over one word, making sure it is exactly the right word, that it captures the moment flawlessly. I saw a quote a while back that said something along the lines of "if you take away the author's writing, all you have left is the disease that caused them to write in the first place". Writing is not just something that a writer picks up just because. Just like the reader, it is an escape from reality. For a few brief moments, the writer can forget about everything and just write, and solve problems in their fictional world, and make everything have a happy ending, or make it a tragedy and express their pain and darkness in a way that painters and musicians can't even touch. Another thing about writing that makes in utterly magnificent is that not everyone can understand it. A small child can look at a painting of a sunset and tell you it is beautiful, or listen to Bach and tell you it sounds pretty. But if you dare present him with Shakespeare, he will look at it confused, not understand the wording, and not see the genius behind it. You can even show it to some adults, and they will just stare at you with a blank face. Writing is not for everyone. Reading is not for everyone. But for those who it is for, it is the most wonderful euphoria in the world.
Yet, these three are united in one way: they are artists, who will never be fully accepted, and understood for their brilliance, except for by a fellow artist. They are these glorious people who can tell you the secrets of existence, and tell you what it means to be truly alive, because at one point or another, they have felt dead. They are tortured souls with nothing else to turn to but their art. And even if everything else in their life disappears, all their friends leave, and they are disowned by their family, they will always have their art.