Artists hold the ability to bring color to life. Bend lines into shapes and shapes into what we held only in our dreams. Hands to mold mounds of clay into works we admire. A power taken for granted and deemed useless all the while being held upon a pestle so high it would be fatal if it fell.
We have great pride. “Look at we created. Look what I’ve done. See what great beauty fell from the tip of my pen. What my mind has unwound. What my hands have sculpted.” All whilst we hide great shame. “It is not what I meant. That was not the original design- born in my mind’s eye. The color is off, the lines are shaky-this does not deserve the praise I seek.” How is it to create such beauty but only see the flaws in it’s design?
Artists hold great meaning in their words. Souls onto paper—worlds made of ink. But with each written line is born one’s truth and another’s disbelief. Different stories written in each blank space between letters- chicken scratched by the eyes that read them.
What an honor it is to write upon the papered trees-but what a tragedy to see the words misread, only to be misspoke, and eventually-the original script seem to fade into the background and interpretations take center stage. What an honor to inspire the artist in anther’s heart- to spin their own tales into the world. What great sorrow must linger in the chest of those whose original print never tells the whispers that danced in their minds.
It made me think today- what if God was an artist? How many colors must be on the pallet? How many lines were bent and clay molded? How much time and care it must have taken to create all the beauty in the world. How delicate were the words written upon God’s papered trees to hold such great meaning? The unimaginable grace that fell from the tip of the pen to bring such peace with each drop of ink. How proud God must be to show us what’s born from the greatest mind to ever have existed.
But truly-what if God was an artist? What if this was not the original design born in God’s eye? What if the colors bled and the lines were shaky? What is it to create such beauty but only see the flaws in it’s design? What is it to watch as your blank spaces to be filled with chicken scratch? To see the words misread, only to be misspoke,and eventually-the original script seems to fade into the background and interpretations take center stage? What an honor to inspire the artist in your own design, from the clay you sculpted, to watch as they spin their own tales into your world. What great sorrow must linger in the your chest as the original print never tells the whispers that danced in your mind.
What if God was an artist? How profound it must be-an artist of the creation most misunderstood.
I can’t imagine how lonely that would be to have such power taken for granted and deemed useless all the while being held upon a pestle so high it would be fatal if it fell.