I saw a brushstroke of an artist today
I got up real close
Realised there was a time
When he too had been just as near
Had stood back and stood as me
Realising something had worked out well
And he thought too
That there would come a time
When someone like me would stand where he himself mused
And realised well that all the toil, all the ditched attempts
Had produced a style which would last in time
Give so much to so many
Render all the frustrations, doubts, sleepless nights a tad worthwhile
On reflection a day or two later
I was overawed by the simplicity I had seen
It remaining so sharp and focused in my eye
Such effort, such pain, even resignation pure
Required to produce little more than a portrait
A man sitting still, fairly expressionless, yet emotion pouring through
Colours we have all seen, but mixed in a mind-spinning way
Raising nature’s profile as high as Lord intended to be
Perhaps it is just pure indulgence more
Making me think this way
Shall I now cease to think of things this way
Or apply my thought to other works I see
Imagining the blank canvas as artists of yesteryear once did
Not knowing what would come of any genial concern
Somehow being led by intuitive feel
Instinctive appreciation of space
As the brush plays out the mindless mind-games
Seemingly experimental in stroke
Yet gelling in so fine a way
To produce what we now stand before
This my friends, my dilemma, to the artist goes my acclaim
Personal take
The mystery of art. The process behind it. The discovery of something lasting.
Does the artist know of his or her success? Does the artist know that a style is being established, and that an appreciation will be found down the line in generations to come. Or is the artist driven by another sort of compulsion, a probing creative process which will not be denied? It can be true of a painting but can also be true of other art forms where the striving for that something different and special underlies the whole approach and application. I have thought about this in relation to writing, in relation to my own poetry too, but in this poem it was an experience at a museum which brought it home to me. I imagine that setting out to achieve a masterpiece is not the best guarantee of achieving such, and art demands that there is a creative process which can be unclear, often painful, and more than sometimes unrewarding. Do artists do things to be liked, to impress, or is there something calling to them to do their deed? Are artists concerned with their legacy or is it art for art’s sake? These are some of the questions which this poem poses. What was the work which roused me so? A clue is in the very title and as the poem progresses you should get even closer to the title. Technique adapted here? An attempt to speak to the reader in relatively simple descriptive terms, to get the reader on one’s side and feel part of the experience, in order that he or she can imagine going through the same experience. The second verse is the proof or real genius, by the artist that is – for as in a film watched, or a book read, the image and impact of the experience comes back and causes you to reflect and appreciate and ponder a conclusion and consequence. And the third looks to gauge the meaning of it all and relevant significance for one’s own attempt at artistic merit.