J. W. Barlament
The Calling of the Modern Artist
The modern artist.
He is a saddening thing.
Long faces always accompany the thought of him.
Somewhere, somehow, the madness of modernity has turned all his bright ideas bleak.
We’re all unendingly inundated with the clamor of countless voices. And, no matter his merits, his voice is lost amidst them.
It seems to be dumb luck to be discovered. No more can prodigious skills serve him up recognition. His insignificance consumes him. So it is that consummation has been the ruin of him twice.
Albeit, of course, someone will inevitably see the fruits of his great labor. Somewhere. Somehow. Even his blind shot in the dark is guaranteed to hit something. Far-off. Perhaps even halfway across the globe. But something. And, if he can hone the skills to match his vision, it may even be remembered above the rest.
He continues. Throughout the night. Across the day Blitzing forth into the next. Not for the masses, but for the one. It is the process itself that ignites the spirit in a manic blaze.
Success is a burden, and obscurity is a blessing in disguise. To create for creation is to know one’s own origin.
It’s completing; to plant for one, but to share the fruits with all.
His vigor only strengthens as he forges forth.
Empty spirits gifted endless joy.
Tired eyes smile.