At the intersection of Creative Drive and Liberal Avenue there is a place selling rations of misunderstood intention.
As a word artist, I know this place well. It is one of my favorite haunts.
I’ve received many a citation here, the citizens policing this corner taking exception to my randomness of thought, my uncanny ability to withhold judgement on another’s actions and my preference to draw humor from that which does not normally elicit laughter.
Here I am in court again, pleading my case to the judges of the cloud, hoping that my foray through the alley of Incidental Offense is not viewed as deliberate. I asked not for forgiveness and I bypassed permission all together – I acted and in acting I somehow erred (again!).
I suffer greatly for my art and as a human being I want to make my mark on this world in the most of positive of ways; unfortunately, it doesn’t always work out that way. Intention and execution are rarely good colleagues.
Good deeds are the devil’s fodder in the light of a new day and they seek brutal, self-inflicted punishment to remind us that beauty and art are defined by the beholder and not the creator.
Such is the artist’s life.
Every piece of work we put in ‘the out there’ is subject to scrutiny and audition. Sadly, we become one with our work, so the judgement is distilled on us.
As creative beings we smooth out the dents in our expectations and move forward, learning that at every unseen blind corner there is a lesson to learn, a new criticism to face or an emotional moving violation we did not expect to receive.
The key is that we must learn from these experiences and not alter our delivered product, rather we must learn to embrace the opposition and the critique. We must recognize that opinion is also in the eye of the beholder and not in the eye of the deliverer.
Opinion and reaction does not define our work. For every scant like there may be many dislikes and vice versa. Still, we cannot help but deliver art.
The point is to draw.
The point is to sculpt.
The point is to sing.
The point is to act.
The point is to compose.
The point is to dance.
The point is, for me, to write.
And if my writing takes me to that corner where the wares of misunderstood intention sell broadly, then there I will be and there I will stay – until the day I write no more.