Explanations
"Art is not a handicraft, it is the transmission of feeling the artist has experienced." - Leo Tolstoy
There is this belief in society that the artist is not meant to explain their work. This dreadful idea that to offer one moment of elucidation is to mar the beauty of the thing. As if there is no value in it, if it is not shrouded in mystery. On the contrary, I think it almost essential to share my account.
After all, one may look upon my work and see something completely different than I. If anything, that is to be expected. How could I ever expect another to hear my whirling thoughts or see my fingers drenched in red? How could someone else feel the thump of my pulse against my throat or the feel of the canvas and brush beneath my fingertips? How could a soul so foreign to my own know the harsh, choking desire to put brush to canvas and pen to paper? How could a stranger look at my creation and see the starless nights I lied awake dreaming of what it might become? Do not doubt that there is beauty in the viewer's own interpretation, but know that there is a special sort of perfection in the truth of the artist's process.
Many prioritize this idea of mystery in the world of art. They believe that questions draw the viewer in further. That intrigue and secrecy are essential. I am not of that school of thought. Knowledge could draw me closer and tighter still than intrigue ever could. Millions stare at the Mona Lisa and ask about her smile, who this woman was, or how Da Vinci knew her. Yet, her smile matters not, and her identity is of no consequence to me. The knowledge that I seek is wholly unconcerned with her. I find it far more fascinating to ponder the sound of Da Vinci's brush scratching against canvas, the smell of lavender spike oil wafting in the air, the smooth feel of a palette knife against his fingertips. Did the beat of his heart sound in time with mine? Does the same fire-hot desire to create burn in his chest? Is this beautiful symphony known only to myself, or does every artist, small or great, sway to the same alluring tune? These are the questions that matter, and yet they will remain unanswered. So, I care not for Mona Lisa.
Nonetheless, that is why I share my own thoughts. To an extent, I feel as though I owe an explanation. I feel almost compelled to share the feeling that caused me to put a brush to canvas. What is any great novel without a narrator? Maybe my narration will not bring the average individual the kinship it may bring to another artist, but at least they might gaze upon my work and find that they understand my desire, if not my vision. Maybe they might go from that place and endeavor to understand the world around them in a different manner. They might take my musings and ask themselves what it is my work inspires in them in comparison.
So yes, there is beauty in interpretation, but there is an even greater beauty in knowledge.
-mar