The stone,the art and the artist

The birds have begun to chirp, as the first rays of morning orange penetrate the still darkness of the night sky. It has been eighteen hours since he last saw his bed, or anything outside that room for that matter. And yet sleep eludes him. Love, they say, does that to people. He has never known love, not atleast in the conventional sense of the word. To him, love has never been about the scent of a woman’s hair, but the smell of rock and earth; and the textures of the stone he works on,has always superseded the touch of a woman’s skin.

The stone is his life; seeing it sometimes, evolve according to his whim, while on other occasions see himself changed due the very nature of the rock, that to him is love—– to grow together towards something bigger and more beautiful than your current state.

The statue is more than just a means to earn his daily bread. The piece of stone is a piece of him. It has demanded his sweat, his blood and has embodied within itself, the very essence of his soul.  And yet there it lies , bare and open for the world to see. Open to their eyes, their judgement and their criticism. And even their praise sometimes seems unsettling. If it were upto him, he would keep it safe, locked up somewhere for only his eyes to dote on and his senses to relish. Its beauty and its flaws would be his and his alone. But the world frowns upon that thought. Possessiveness, they call it. Art they say; like love, can never belong to one man alone. And so there it lies, for the world to see, for people to flirt and fiddle with. The divine ,he thinks has become trivial.

He used to frequent his pieces of art spread far and wide across the country. Eager to know how they were,how the world was treating them.  He had seen people in plush suits and pretentious mustaches write at length about them. People who had not once touched a rock with a desire to create, only an urge to judge.

But he had also come to see young men and women who stood where his work stood, and looked at it in silent appreciation. He had seen their realms being expanded by every cut or curve of his work. It had inspired them, to try something new.And the core of man’s spirit comes from new experiences.

He had learnt , that the world could not possibly possess something that was so fundamentally, his. And it bothered him less now. He had often thought of his work as an object. A single entity, that would be made impure if shared. But he had come to realize that his art, like his life was much more. It was a feeling, an emotion. The rock, was not a single entity. His art, like his life , encompassed every emotion possible love,struggle, sorrow, pride and above all happiness.And happiness, he had realized, is only real when shared. 🙂


PS: This one is dedicated to “Into the wild”, for showing me (a slightly possessive, moderately control freaky guy), a glimpse of the other side. Loved every bit of it. On that note I end this post with these words, that were the last words in the movie, although they are completely out of context here

If I were smiling and running into your arms…..Would you see then what I see now…


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