Capturing Beauty

I.

Music is a way of life. With my focus centered on hearing, my mind jumps into the air and clings onto currents of sound. I have an atuned emotional sphere within me so my heart also never fails to catch the wave. The range of sounds and tones existent in the universe is comparable to the range of emotions we humans are able to bring forth. As much as it’s pained me at many points in my life, and as much as I’ve resisted its call, I am always seeking to capture this entire orchestra of feeling. Perhaps I could store it somewhere safe in my body. Yet, to ride these varying waves of song is neither an option that many are capable of, nor a choice everyone chooses to make. I cannot stand for music ambiance. Each song that begins to play grabs my complete attention and sends me deep into memory and dream. And rarely am I able to completely enjoy a song. Not without an incredible need to own it in some fashion or another; in a CD, video performance or stash it away on my computer. I’ve always felt this desire to be somewhat ironic in light of the purity of beautify music gives to me.

II.

Dance washes away the muck in my life. It’s not so much of an escape as it is a dismantling of the negative power that sometimes shadows over my spirit. When my arm reaches across my body and then slowly floats to my side as I begin to rise to the balls of my feet, I am breathing. I am feeling. Each muscle that twitches, each joint that extends become central in my consciousness and I am able to let go of the things that take me far away from here. Dance is the physical expression of my mind rolling along music waves. When I dance, I don’t deny my emotions. I don’t let them consume me. Instead, I let them guide me.

Watching dance has always given me a similar reaction to listening to music. In a small, experimental dance performance that I attended at Hampshire College, an epic duet took place. A youthful two, “him” and “her”, ran, leapt, fell, and floated in and out of eachother’s touch. Each limb of their body, out to the last joint of their pinky fingers, was moving in coordinated motions. The theatrical effect of their duet carried tears to my eyes when the lights dimmed. I was taken, and went home listing the areas where I needed to practice in order to dance as they did.

III.

Renaissance art is my favorite style and that always seems to surprise people. Somehow they expect me to like the “abstract”. They want me to be interested dark colors; in the beckoning and bold. They also expect me to have have something to say about it. Something profound (I’ve been told I’m a profound person). But all I can say is that I love renaissance art, and there is really nothing special, breathtaking, inspiring, moving or any other such adjective I have left to reflect on it. I just like looking at people’s faces. The setting and props of the painting are most often uninteresting to me. It is the emotions that are drawn, painted or sculpted on their faces. I just like looking at them.

And if there is a medium that I feel most inspired by it is photography. It is the only form of art in which I feel confident enough to have a go at myself. I also enjoy editing pictures, which now due to twenty-first century pizzaz, is all done on my computer. It is usually late at night when I sit with my Apple and review my pictures. The computer warms my lap and I sink into the glowing screen. Contrast, saturation, exposure, temperature, tint, sharpness, noise – this is how I make a memory mine.

IV.

We were truly walking in fields of gold that late afternoon. We kissed beneath the jealous sky and let the breeze blow us away. I asked you if you wanted to take a picture. ‘Look at the sky’, I said, ‘look at how the orange radiates off the sun and highlights the flamingo pink clouds.’ You didn’t know what the word “radiate” meant, but I stopped you before you could answer. ‘Why do I want to take a picture so badly? Why do we feel the need to capture beauty?’ I complained. You didn’t say much. I can’t remember if you contributed any thoughts. You just listened for a while. Then you said to me, ‘Why do you have to describe everything you see? Don’t you know that I can see it too?’

You stopped me there and put me in my place. I felt like a punished dog. Why is it, I thought, that when I am privileged to these special moments in life, I want to take a picture? I want to write a poem! I want to call the ones I love to tell them all about it. I returned to my original thought and then asked you one last time, ‘Art is an ownership, no?’
You thought for a moment perplexed, and nodded your head in unsure agreement. I want to own beauty.




“Fields of Gold” by Sting, from the album Fields of Gold.

Can't You See My Light?!

I may not give myself enough credit.
I spend too much time scolding myself on my
petty,
impractical,
pompously pious,
yet purely poetic
personal, insignificance.
Do you want to slap me on the hand
or maybe the face?
By whatever means, help me wake up!

Is it more polite to start with passivity and move to strength?
I feel like I was always taught that way.

Some say it may be better than thinking this glowing circle of lights around your head
is all the light that the world can see
I know that so many minds in this universe are illuminated.
It's the thought that my lights don't count.
My lights don't shine enough
My lights aren't pretty enough.

I want someone to swoop me up and say:
Any light is a blessing, especially yours.
Someone told me that's what Jesus is for.
Someone also told me what Jesus' eyes look like.
With a snap of the keyboard they shocked me mid-type!
"all the things in the world you love, not the tempting ones
just the ones of goodness
so I've heard."

So I've heard that you had a broken heart once
Please tell me how it healed.
Please don't tell me you fell in love again.
That you fell down that sometimes hole of out-of-love
and came back to the surface on your own.
Please don't tell me that.
That would mean I'd have to let go.

It's so much harder to light your light when you think you fight
without the might, below the height.
When you don't believe it's shiny enough for him in slight.
Shimmering enough to warm his heart all through the night
Vivid enough to inspire his soul... outright.
It's so much harder to work through the broken glass of
he-may-not-want-your-light-anymore.
Someone told me that's supposed to be just ok.