Thursday, February 13, 2014

A Beautiful Mess

A Child's Heart (2014)
Soph Laugh
Acrylic on Canvas
Private Collection

For, lo, the heart is pure, the love is true and good; gentleness appears in their eyes; wonderment in their presence shines, and the voice of a child echoes their becoming... Love, my child, my treasure, as the world loves you. 


There must be genius in simplicity, though I fear my mind may be too complex to comprehend it, fully. 

I cannot deny how the dramatic inwardness of simplicity fascinates me. It is the love-child of Chaucer and Shakespeare, the epitome of inward freedom. 

What is this genius that delights and why must we leave it? Does it arise from the innocence of our heart's mind in childhood, propelling our adult minds into continual worship with the nostalgic notion of creative delight, and can it persist if we express it?

Many in the world consider useful that which helps to enlarge our possessions or to raise our station in society, though laying claim to such appellations might be scorned in polite society. Thus we soften and simplify desires and longings to: that which tends to make us happier and better and which can be called useful to ourselves and others; a more befitting epithet for socially expressing our personal interests. 

Thinking is the heart of my existence, it is my ally with virtue and is the promoter of my happiness. As much as I romanticize the notion of equality in existence, I can not help but recognize that certain perceptions and realizations are more vivid and striking than even the paintbrush can furnish; yet when I paint, immersed in the vastness of music, in close proximity to my own heart, the notions of simplicity of being are more meaningful than mere words could by nature of their limitations convey. And yet it is words that soften the moments in life that are not as gloriously elegant in their simplicity. This not only complicates simplicity, but also simplifies the grandness of some moments to the point they are mistook for mere simplicity. 

Immersed in a loving sentiment as musical as Apollo's flute, painting is one avenue of expression that compels my heart toward this simplicity, and yet I cannot sustain it. My mind is wired to think about it, which means I must naturally leave it due to my dwelling between the two expressions. 

To devote study to a species of learning which relates wholly to false marvels is not to be expected to find complete understanding. But consistently visiting these moments does allow one to dwell among them long enough to find a number of highly personal understandings about the nature of life, existence and self. 

Leaving these moments appears to subdue the exploration, but the inspirations that arise while in these moments are shared by the original explorer.

Thinking about simplicity is as real as thinking about the sciences of facts and things. Exploring simplicity is perhaps a science of fancy, but perhaps more time should be devoted to making our inquiries as intelligible to our hearts as they are to our minds. 

Even in the act of appreciation we must let some allusions pass unapprehended rather than submit to them; allowing ourselves to heuristically grow in a way that answers to other questions need only arise when our query does. I am of the belief that the most basic and fundamental queries are continually being answered by our being in all that we think, do and feel. Thus a sense of urgency does not exist for me, only a desire to travel in delight with the narratives that speak to as many aspects of my being as is possible. 

The stories of all our lives are somewhat amusing, endeavoring to tell them is where our aesthetic self can be discovered. We may discover ourselves in everything, but we cannot dwell everywhere simultaneously except for perhaps in our minds eye. This last realization is what transforms a child's heart into the heart of an adult. One that recognizes itself in others, without losing sight of who's who. 

The stories of our lives can be a relaxation from life, a study of life, so that the explorer finds him or herself in the tale. This nostalgic aspect of mutual appreciation indicates that we discover ourselves in everything we consider. Whether we are merely igniting its potential within us is unknown and not fully understood. 

Still possession may not be necessary for self-understanding. As seen in a child's heart, a story need only have the charm of a story-book, the child's heart is not seeking to impart or absorb a knowledge of an important element of self-understanding, it merely delights from the simplicity of the experience in being. 

The grandest value in any given experience inclines toward sharing. While this does not discount individual discovery, we as a species are compelled to share our discoveries. For me it matters not who makes a discovery. If it is expansive in nature, I revel in it; if it is limiting, I find within myself that which is needed to eliminate the barriers that separate understanding from self. 

It is the elimination of division that often times results in new, even more ironic barriers emerging. Barriers between cultures, between interests, between people... due to physics and geometry, perhaps we are only allowed so many connections at any given time, not by design, but by nature of our design. 

Wherever discovery lies, wherever genius may be found, wherever existence is or is not, can or cannot be, it is all a beautiful mess. 

A Beautiful Mess (2014)
Soph Laugh
Acrylic on Canvas
Private Collection

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