Designed by Crow June 2019
Art has the role in education of helping children become life themselves instead of more like everyone else.
-Sydney Gurewitz
-Sydney Gurewitz
| The Arts Words speak to the mind, Painting to the eyes, Dance to the heart, Music to the soul. To create Is an urge, An itch that Must be scratched, Lest it fester Into a sore That bleeds. Art is an attempt Life to imitate, Recreate, Explicate. A desire to Compensate, Ameliorate, To celebrate, And sometimes To deprecate, And excoriate. Four Artists in a Meadow Four artists were taking a walk in the countryside. Soon they came to a meadow. “Oh, how beautiful,” the painter cried. "Look at all the different colors and patterns.” He took out his palette and paints and began to recreate the scene he saw before him. “Yes, it is beautiful,” the writer agreed. “It fills my heart with so much emotion that I must write a poem.” She pulled out her pen and notebook and, leaning against an oak tree, began to pen a sonnet. The musician stood silent, listening to a lark singing in the grass. The musician tried whistling the bird’s tune. He and the bird whistled back and forth in increasingly complex melodies, while the musician scribbled down the notes. The dancer simply took off her shoes and began to dance through the tall grass. Her graceful movements followed the grasses swaying in the wind. An old philosopher happened to be walking the same path with his wife. They came upon the meadow and stopped to watch the four artists at work. “How beautiful,” the wife said quietly. “How well they complement and enhance the bucolic scene.” The philosopher answered, “That is Art.” The Monk Once there was a young man who set out into the world to seek his fortune. He did not seek fame and gold, as did some of his friends, but a fulfilling life and perhaps some recognition for his talents. The young man found a job as a cook at a local inn. He enjoyed cooking and found he could exercise his creativity by concocting new recipes. But the inn closed and the man was left without a job. Well, the young man thought, he enjoyed music too. So he joined a band and they travelled, playing wherever they went. This was fun and the man was able to visit many places. After a time, when the man grew older, he tired of travelling every day. He was ready to settle down. But what could he do that would nurture his need for creativity and still bring in enough money to live? One day, when visiting a cathedral in a major city, the man had an epiphany. As he sat listening to a group of monks singing Vespers, he thought, “I could become a monk. There I could sing and play music, I could illustrate texts, and there would be no distractions. I would be fed and left alone to practice my arts.” So the very next morning, the man went to the church officials and inquired about becoming a monk. They welcomed him. The initiation period was easy for the man. He liked studying and was adept at reflection. Soon he had become a monk and he joined a monastery. At the monastery, the man had a small room where he could read, write, practice calligraphy and play music for himself. There was a resident cat, kept for catching mice, that the man befriended. The new monk also joined in on chant and illustrated texts for the monastery. When the other monks discovered his love of cooking, they asked him to make all their meals, as well as creating delicacies for the monastery to sell. The other monks were well pleased with this new addition to their ranks. And the new monk felt useful and appreciated. Finally, he had found a place to belong, a place where he could exercise his many creative skills, and be useful and acknowledged at the same time. The Teacher Once there was a young girl who was quite creative. She wrote little stories, built things out of boxes, and once even wrote a song. When she began school, she discovered she loved learning as well and became a fine student. But she never lost her creative streak. She loved when her teacher assigned a story using the spelling words or had the students make a diorama for a story they had read. She even tried drawing, but she was no good at it.The young girl also liked music. She loved it when the family gathered around the piano to sing. She wanted to play an instrument and was given a toy accordion. As the girl matured, she continued to be a good student. She also continued her creative efforts. She took up the flute and practiced diligently. She got a book on learning to draw and practiced, to little avail. But it was fun. She started keeping a journal. And she continued to write poems and stories. She was happy when her teachers assigned creative projects. And very happy the year she could take creative writing as a course. The girl, now a young woman, wanted to become a writer. But she had no idea how to go about it. So she continued her studies. She was an excellent student and knew she could do well there. But she continued to write creatively when she had time. As a form of protest, she appended a creative story to each of her scholarly papers. The professors did not know what to make of her. Who was this woman? After college, the young woman still did not know what to do. How did one become a writer? She tried for five years, then grew tired of living in poverty and started searching for a real job. Finally, she became a teacher. Teaching was a good fit for the woman. She could continue learning and could impart her love of learning to others. She could be creative, although in a different way. But it was also frustrating. She must adhere to others’ standards and expectations and there was little acknowledgment for any endeavors outside the norm. Teaching was also all-consuming. She had little time for outside creative endeavors or even for socializing. But she continued to write whenever she had the time. As for music, she learned to listen instead of playing. But she sang every day with her students. After many years of teaching, the woman decided she had had enough. She retired. Now she could write to her heart’s content. And she did. But now there was no music in her life. So she joined a singing group and took up a new instrument. Soon she was singing and playing once again. She even began to record, something entirely new for her. She enjoyed learning new skills and being able to write as she wished once again. And looking back, she realized how she had always had that need to be creative, one way or another. It was in her blood. A need in which she could now indulge to her heart’s content. -MW | Poetry and Prose Poetry says much in a very little, Prose says much but only in much. Poetry is akin to a slug of Scotch, Prose is a bottle of premier stout. To Write or not to Write! Should you want to know What poets are all about, Then 'tis the land of poetry That you should begin to scout. Should you want to know What poetry is all about, Then 'tis the land of poets That you should begin to scout. Would you a poet be And your own poems pen, Then live and feel and think, Re-imagine it all, then write. Good your poems may be, Or even bad or worse, It doesn't really matter, Reward is in the writing. Paintings Realistic paintings are prosaic, Romantic paintings are poetic, Abstract paintings are cryptic. Realistic paintings appeal to thought, Romantic paintings appeal to imagination, Abstract paintings appeal to curiosity. Realistic paintings can be tedious, Romantic paintings can be cloying, Abstract paintings can be perplexing. But without paintings are whatever sort Life would be a lot less colorful. Art Art is actuality: actuality mirrored, expanded, satirized, rendered comic or tragic, mimicked, distorted, gilded, hyperbolized, fantasized, romanticized, idealized, ironicized, celebrated and denigrated. Art is actuality altered by the artist's imprint or enveloped by the artist's shadow. Art is personal even when impersonal. And universal even when personal! Poets Serious poets are able to cut through life's tangled mess to get at life's essentials. They are keen observers and students of life. They are a culture's seismograph. They are our Cassandras, our Delphic seers, and are to be heeded. Creativity Traditionally, creativity was commonly deemed a wondrous God-given gift or but a chance unique talent. These yesteryear assumptions prevailed until the advent of modern-day psychology. With Freud, attention began to shift from these suspect sources of creative to the very complex psychology of creativity. The road from creative potentiality to the creative process now became progressively more intricately psychological. Creative potentiality (necessary intelligence and imagination) can vary dramatically from person to person. A modicum of inherent possibility to create demands a good deal of effort for fruition, an abundance correspondingly less. to wit, some trying honing--sweat and grief--is always necessary if potentiality is to become a creative skill. Creative potential would lie fallow but for some compelling motivation. Need and want seem to be the major motivating thrust in every kind of creativity: a need to counter the pain of wanting self-esteem and/or of the low regard of others, and a desire to raise low self-regard and/or the low regard of others. Creativity can therefore serve multiple purposes and can be twice rewarding: a blessing for the creator and a gratuitous gift for the public. Creativity is thus essentially a catharsis, a wondrous therapeutic exercise, and this is true both of the genial and of the run-of-the-mill creators. Unfortunately, most blighted and blessed creative individuals are compelled to return to the well again and again for the psychological benefits of creativity are more or less short-lived. The creative process itself is no pleasant saunter in a grooved grove, but an arduous crawl through king jungle thickets: torment the may end with a blissful heurēka. -JM Bits of Wisdom from JM: Every itch deserves a scratch. Creations refresh their creators. A dance will life enhance. Art is primarily to be experienced not judged. Music is love's language for thought is too remote. To reproduce is a craft, to create is an art. In colors, in colors The fields are dressed in the spring. In colors, in colors Are the little birds that come from outside. In colors, in colors Is the rainbow that we see shining. And that is why I love The great loves of many colors And that is why I love The great loves of many colors. The rooster sings, the rooster sings With a cock-a-doodle, cock-a-doodle-doo. The hen, the hen With a cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck. The chicks, the chicks With a cheep, cheep, cheep, cheep, cheep. And that is why I love The sweet sounds in our ears. And that is why I love The sweet sounds in our ears. |