der landstreicher

Reflections on an Artist and his Art

It's not an orchestra. It is not Violins flanking the Violas and Celli. Not a collective of strings, wood, brass and copper. At least, not when he steps in front.

It is a canvas.

And there is no baton (a rule I'm not sure I would be willing to break). So, I guess in a way this is finger-painting. By Rembrandt. The colors are before him. And with a gentle lift he begins to spread the faintest hues. The canvas is not covered but transformed. And, if you watch, you will notice that he is not directing the colors, but rather guiding them along a path they already see.

Creating.

The natural process continues and the colors begin to blend into extra-rambowic tones. More is seen when the eye wishes to hear less. And the color escapes into blank canvas when you are emploring him for sound. Blank canvas that sings with a stronger voice than the most vibrant of red. And with greater purity than the most soothing green. Nothing is withheld by the silence. In fact, more is expressed then than by the forte which will inevitably follow.

Crescendo.

Never loud. Never forced. And never coming from nowhere. He won't allow it. The faintest brushstroke will give the hint. And the color grows. To a point of absolute perfection. Absolute control. And the colors blend exactly as they have every time before--in a totally unique fashion. Never out of place. Spontaniously routine.

That is the art.

A perfection of color that is always new because it is not unknown. It is heard a thousand times so that every time is the first. Creating art so magnificent, it will never be matched.

until tomorrow night...

posted by John D. Nevergall @ 10:35