I have a friend. He's one of the most generous people I have met in my short life. He is an artist in the purest and most visceral sense of the word, (visceral being one of his favorite words alongside spaghetti, banana, objective, and truth). I received a gift from this artist friend of mine a few months ago. "What is Art" by Leo Tolstoy. I plan to read one chapter a day every few days or so and hopefully stretch it throughout the summer.
The other day I came across a passage that made me laugh out loud. It describes several types of artists and how they spend their whole lives trying to perfect their crafts:
"And these people, often very kind, intelligent, capable
of every sort of useful labour, grow wild in these exceptional,
stupefying occupations and become dull to all serious phenomena
of life, one-sided and self-complacent specialists, knowing only
how to twirl their legs, tongues or fingers."
This is how I see myself. Utterly foolish, yet utterly correct in my chosen occupation. In fact, the less a choice makes sense, the more likely I am to make it. There are exceptions, certainly...otherwise I suppose I really would be living in a cardboard box right about now; but my life so far could not possibly have been planned by any sane, rational human being :) Instead I can only look back, in retrospect, and see an extremely well-worn road, weaving through life deftly and poignantly. Heaven knows I had no idea where I was going at the time, but I'm happy to have let the path lead me along!
Six more days.
-Gin
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