“Art is intimacy, lover’s talk, and yet it is a public declaration.”
Jeanette Winterson.
Even tho these words seem so intimate or personal or private; I think they capture that oddest of sensations of showing art.
We make our art. It comes from within. It comes on the wings of whispers. It tells a story. It goes deep and then surfaces. Our art is so very very personal. We know, only we can make the art we do. And we know, we can only make the art we do.
So then, the showing. The baring. The very public presentation. Asking, hoping.
The intimacy of lover's talk becomes a public declaration.
I can still remember the anxiety going to visit Pas de Deux for the first time before it opened; and hoping that it looked OK; that my work held up all right. And then I wept a little bit, quietly when I saw it. It was beyond belief beautiful and more than I could ever have hoped for...
And the last time my beautiful mum saw my work on show...more tears today.
Jeanette Winterson.
Even tho these words seem so intimate or personal or private; I think they capture that oddest of sensations of showing art.
We make our art. It comes from within. It comes on the wings of whispers. It tells a story. It goes deep and then surfaces. Our art is so very very personal. We know, only we can make the art we do. And we know, we can only make the art we do.
So then, the showing. The baring. The very public presentation. Asking, hoping.
The intimacy of lover's talk becomes a public declaration.
I can still remember the anxiety going to visit Pas de Deux for the first time before it opened; and hoping that it looked OK; that my work held up all right. And then I wept a little bit, quietly when I saw it. It was beyond belief beautiful and more than I could ever have hoped for...
And the last time my beautiful mum saw my work on show...more tears today.
a beautiful post about how art & music need to be seen & heard to fulfill their destiny, reminding me of the very shy guitarist who lived in one of the share houses over half a lifetime ago, he only played when he thought there was no one home, he played like an angel but no one ever heard him, except by stealth
ReplyDeleteIsn't that the loveliest story Mo - and it echoes the loveliness of sentiment contained in this quote. Go well.
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