fields of gold

You'll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You'll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we walk in the fields of gold

So she took her love
For to gaze awhile
Upon the fields of barley
In his arms she fell as her hair came down
Among the fields of gold

Will you stay with me, will you be my love
Among the fields of barley
We'll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we lie in the fields of gold

See the west wind move like a lover so
Upon the fields of barley
Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth
Among the fields of gold
I never made promises lightly
And there have been some that I've broken
But I swear in the days still left
We'll walk in the fields of gold
We'll walk in the fields of gold

Many years have passed since those summer days
Among the fields of barley
See the children run as the sun goes down
Among the fields of gold
You'll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You can tell the sun in his jealous sky
When we walked in the fields of gold
When we walked in the fields of gold
When we walked in the fields of gold

Sting, Fields of Gold

they are for what they are

These roses under my window make no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they are; they exist with God to-day. There is no time to them. There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence. Before a leaf-bud has burst, its whole life acts; in the full-blown flower, there is no more; in the leafless root, there is no less. Its nature is satisfied, and it satisfies nature, in all moments alike. There is no time to it. But man postpones or remembers; he does not live in the present, but with reverted eye laments the past, or, heedless of the riches that surround him, stands on tiptoe to foresee the future. He cannot be happy and strong until he too lives with nature in the present, above time.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

the simple beauty of children

Whenever a child cries, a nearby adult gets irritated. Can't someone shut that kid up? they ask. Whenever a child laughs, however, a nearby adult laughs as well, possibly suddenly reminded of the simplicity of youth. Children don't have to worry about taxes or mortgages. They don't have to worry about peer pressure or self esteem yet. So when a child laughs, adults reminisce back to a time when they still had things to laugh at.

But... I always wondered why adults don't smile when children cry. I know I do... and not because I am a dark or twisted person. I merely recognize the life cycle in children, and its beauty always makes me smile.

Children live entire lives in one simple day. They experience happiness -- from a toy or a goofy adult. They experience sadness -- from lack of sleep or a stubbed toe. They experience love -- a hug from a mother or understanding the meaning of sharing. In a matter of seconds, the laughter of a child can immediately turn into an unexpected rage of thunder. Tears will fall without warning, but, if one will simply waits it out, a rainbow will appear in the smiling eyes of that same child in a matter of minutes.

Many people are annoyed by children, even to the point that they declare, "I'm never going to have children!" They're loud. They're messy. They're unclean. Yes, maybe so, but they are still just children. They don't know any better. This is what we do -- around children or adults -- we just get annoyed without trying to fix the problem. We see a crying child -- or an incompetant coworker or an adulterous friend -- and we just ignore it, hoping that it will go away on its own, all the while, we, ourselves, get angry and annoyed. It's as though no one wants to try anymore. No one wants to help that crying child, expect for the mother. What does this say about our society?

The world of a child is so full of opportunity and undiscovered doors -- not hate or war. They don't know the meanings of those words. We create that world for them. Instead, they clap their hands at silly magic tricks or goofy faces, and they never laugh at you. They like to be tossed upside down because they can see the world better that way. When was the last time an adult liked to see the world upside down?

Nothing ever stays the same with children. They are a personification of impermanence, and children understand this concept better than most adults. They look out a window and they see a world they want to belong to. They don't hide behind empty promises or declared ignorance.

I was sitting in Heathrow airport, surrounded by children. Loud ones, messy ones, unclean ones. And I wished there were more. They cry over the little things because they don't know of famine, war, hunger, or death. They scream because every second is new to them. Adults often forget that life is compromised of these seconds, seconds of wonderment and love. Nothing else matters but discovery. They love opening doors and peeking where they shouldn't because they love that adventure. They scribble on walls and love getting dirty because it's fun. Adults will almost always not do something due to fear or social conventions. Grass stains on a shirt can be washed out, but the memory of rolling down a hill will never wash away.

Love as often as you can, and get your heart broken every time. Don't worry about which way the wind blows because it will always carry you somewhere. Bring peace with each footstep, and put as much care in your family as you do in your possessions. Some adults quit because they know too much, because there is too much to know. But children... their lives are nothing but moments of discovery and amazement. Children learn by mistakes, and they always get back up. They continue to peek around the corner. They don't hide. They face the unknown because... because it's all they can do.

How unfortunate that we are not born adults and grow to be children.

hope

Hope, George Frederic Watts, 1886. Tate Britain, London.

On the statement posted beside the picture:
One of a series of allegorical subjects which Watts intended for a decorative scheme known as the 'House of Life'. Traditionally the figure of Hope is identified by an anchor, but Watts was seeking a fresher, more original approach. He painted blind Hope seated on a globe and playing on a lyre which has all its strings broken except one. She bends her head to listen to the faint music, but her efforts appear forlorn; the overall atmosphere is one of sadness and desolation rather than hope. The picture's sense of melancholy is enhanced by the soft brushwork and the translucent mists that envelop the floating globe.

The Tate Britian, quite possibly my favorite museum, always surprises me. Any museum does. I always walk in -- saunter, really -- and I anticipate the paintings or sculptures that are listed in the museum guide. I also look forward to the ones I already know are there. But occassionally I will find myself staring at a random painting for, what seems like, hours, wondering why I can't move my legs and wondering how much time has actually passed. This has happened before with Kandinsky's Europa and Delaroche's The Execution of Lady Jane Grey. I'm suddenly surprised at how this painting burns in my brain for years after I've seen it.

Last summer, I had this experience with Watts' Hope.

I can't explain why it affected me so, only that, in that moment of my life, Hope fit the characteristics of what I needed. I needed that desperation. I needed that clinging on for something more. I needed that restlessness. I needed that connection. I needed to be reminded that I'm not the only one who's trying anymore.

And if your child ever says, "But why do we have to go to another museum?", just tell them that museums are all different and that, in each one, there is a connection that is waiting to be made. Museums remind us that we're not alone, that we're all human, that our hopes and fears have prevailed throughout the centuries.

Better yet, don't tell you child anything. Let them discover it on their own. Let them rediscover hope.

shakespeare vs. britney spears

I recommend this website that 1) prioritizes the necessities or art, 2) challenges two artists to a duel of these priorities, and 3) asks which artist you would want to be stranded on a deserted island with.

Not surprisingly, my answer, Mozart, was the 2nd most popular choice.

Take the survey. It takes two minutes, and it really makes you question what you assumed you thought about art.

what is art?

I grew up with wannabe-hippie parents, which are, undoubtedly, better than actual hippies. My parents are bleeding heart liberals who questioned the existence of God, without ever having smoked pot or rumbled with authority. Between the two of them, they own over 4,000 books, half of which are duplicates because of their similar interests. At school, kids used to tell me that I smelled weird. "Like what," I asked. "Like... books," they replied. I wondered if perhaps I smelled like Great Expectations or Ulysses or some obscure art book, entitled something like Nude Art and How It Changed the World of Aviation.

Growing up in this household ruined me for the real world. I'm not privy to sports, and I don't understand the point of playing Guitar Hero for 48 hours over the weekend. People would make fun of me for not knowing what a Louisville Slugger was, and they also made fun of me for knowing who was the architect of the Duomo in Florence. "What? You don't know that it was Brunelleschi," I would retort. It didn't take long to realize that I was in the minority when it came to topics like art, travel, literature, architecture, and theatre. When I got to college, I began wondering why there was still no one I could relate to. Late in my freshman year, I learned why.

"What is art," my teacher asked. Silence. She repeated the question, but it was met with same resounding silence, although I would swear that I heard the breaking of my teacher's heart.


Leo Tolstoy tells us in his essay What is Art? what art is not:
Art is not, as the metaphysicians say, the manifestation of some mysterious idea of beauty or God; it is not, as the aesthetical physiologists say, a game in which man lets off his excess of stored-up energy; it is not the expression of man's emotions by external signs; it is not the production of pleasing objects; and, above all, it is not pleasure.

Art just simply is. Art is everywhere. I was walking along the Embankment one drizzly summer day, and I came across a park bench absolutely covered in garbage. Beside it was a rather clean bench, no graffiti and no trash. I took a black and white photograph of it, and, suddenly, this park bench had become art. It was commentary on my life in that moment, on London in that moment, of the life of that park bench in London at that moment. Nothing in life can or should be overlooked. Everything has it's place.

Every tear, every smile, every heartbreak, and every fear. Every lamppost, every drainage ditch, every statue, every baby, every reflection, and every mundane item. Every breakup, every parent, every friend, every lover, every compliment, and every insult. Everything cannot be nothing. Everything is everything, and it would be foolish to look the other way and just accept everything.


Some might say that art is content and form. Others may argue that art is that which expresses. But is more than that. So much more. In fact, it's everything. You may prefer some art to others -- just as you may prefer some lovers to others, or some emotions to others -- but each piece of art takes a position on the world we live in. Each piece of art marks a moment in history when everything comes together. A lamppost is no longer just a lamppost, but a lamppost that has lived through World War II. A bicycle is no longer just a bicycle, but a bicycle that once belong to a child who has now grown and died. A person is no longer just a person, but someone who affects you, negatively or positively, but affects you nonetheless.

Tolstoy continues to say:
[Art] is a means of union among men, joining them together in the same feelings, and indispensable for the life and progress toward well-being of individuals and of humanity.

Art will never be defined. It can't be. Sometimes it involves an emotion, but not always. Sometimes it involves technical skill, but, as modern art will prove, that's not always the case either. Sometimes reality is included, and sometimes art is included in reality. Art has a way of sneaking up on you to a point that you're not even aware that you're thinking of art. But the next time that you see a lamppost or pass a child on a bicycle, know that you are living and breathing art.

Art is life. And life is art.