Of Writing and Art

Writing poems again? Why did you stop drawing? It's such a shame, you were so good at it! I don't understand!

No, you don't understand. Not many people understand. You have always liked art. When I was a kid, you'd drag me to art museums every single weekend: Le Louvre, Le Petit Palais, Le Musée d'Orsay. You'd spend hours on end admiring the paintings, the sculptures, the photographs even. I never understood that. Oh, I liked them! Of course I did. But I could not understand how you could watch the same painting so many times and not be bored of it. I could not understand the fascination, the obsession.

But I understand now. Now, I can see the feelings behind the brushes, the life given to the clay, the stories in each picture frame. Now, I know the feelings of admiration for the raw emotions in each and every piece of art, and for the people who have managed to create such poignant shards of themselves.

Now, it is you who does not accept my art. You who cannot see the power of words. How can I explain something so obvious? You, so entranced by the meanings behind the shapes, the colors, the textures, how, how can you not see the thrall of words creating images in your mind, so personal, so special, so magical! And the rush felt when, gently or powerfully, one arranges the words, playing with sonorities and colors and hidden meanings...

It is an art, to put into words what cannot be, to snare in deep truths and trap them within the words, and let them be understood. And so, I hope you can understand through my words, that writing is as much an art as everything you see in your old museums; only less appreciated, and often disdained, by those who have never been able to read deeper than the surface.