art is not dead.

art is only a dying breath if it is exhaled by a dying man.

for art is an outpouring of the soul.

if my soul has beauty, then my art will have beauty.

if my heart is dead, then my art is dead, and will propagate only death.

if my eyes are weak, my art will reflect only blindness.

if my mind looks only inward, my art will lack vision, leading only to apathy and empty introspection--a navel-gazing critic in a museum, with only dust to keep his musings company.

not a flicker of transcendence

my art is the work of my hands. if my hands are hesitant or violent, then my art will in turn be either feeble or hurtful.

my art (intentional or no) is the expression of my Self.

my soul, heart, eyes, mind, hands.

who i am, what i feel and believe, what and how i see, what i think, what i do.

art is not paper, or paint, or plaster, or hours spent alone in a studio with an aching back.

it is not merely notes tossed onto lined paper by a hasty hand, or an instrument lovingly tuned, or a voice that infuses the mundane with the divine.

it is more than a lingual equation sliding from intellectual plane to intellectual plane within the syntax of the human brain.

it is certainly more than a farce rendered in flawless iambic pentameter.

no. . .

the greatest canvas ever given was Life.

every moment is a fleck of paint. . each day rendered in painstaking pointillism.

is my palette monochromatic?

the Potter has handed me the clay, to make with it what i will.

will what i make be beautiful?

II Timothy 2:20-21