Art

I love art: there are no clear definitions or guidelines, yet, there are standards.

Even years ago in high school, friends were angry that the teacher had given their work low scores. They asked: 'how can she rate abstract art?'

For me, a work of art stands somewhat independent from the artist as well as the appreciator. It has its own existence: the creator and viewer have their own perspectives and interpretations but neither is complete.

Does it matter what the artist intended? How about the historical context? Should how it was created matter? Should we care about the personality and life history of the artist him/herself? What of the work’s history? How relevant are all the different interpretation of the art? Should we care if it evokes emotions, makes us think or tells a story? Does the work need to be beautiful in some way? Must there be an element of craftsmanship and skill in its creation? Must there be an intent to create art?

It all matters. A work of art whether a graffiti in the subway or a guarded statue in Florence is complex. And of course, how one makes tea, marks a page in a book or talks to people can be equally artistic and complex. Pure abstract thoughts are oftentimes wondrous works of art.

So, does that mean everything is a work of art and dependent on the eye of the beholder? No- everything is not art, and not all art is good. It does however make all of us creators and appreciators of art.

Uncertainty

You and I are probably wrong about most things- if not everything. That includes what it means to be wrong.

I don’t think it’s particularly difficult for one to notice their infinite ignorance. For myself, it’s an axiom.

Ideas I held close to heart and deeply sensed to be true have at times been shown to be deepy flawed. I am keenly aware that values that are the cornerstone of who I am are just that: necessities to hold me up.

Of course, I have felt this way a long time. As well, the multi-flavored ice cream of philosophy: metaphysics, epistemology, ethics and aesthetics shows that I am by no means unique.

However, in everyday life one must think, speak and act. Non-hypocritical skepticism is paralyzing. Plato was not a skeptic, wrote The Republic, and still informally came to decide that philosophers would make ineffective politicians.

So, how is it that I spend the day being highly decisive? How do I trust myself? How can I choose paths having been wrong so many times?

I try to not be a purist and enjoy every moment of partial uncertainty.
Perhaps.

Restless

Waves vibrate louder,
Roughness steams,
Flashes roll down.
Reflected.

Light streams through an opening,
Dust waterfalls,
Shrieks ring ring.
Blinded.

I stand.

Cold Hands

On Monday, I did a house visit. A gentle middle-aged lady was quite ill.

During the week a few of my patients were falling asleep during their appointments. They had been up all night taking turn watching over her. This is a tight community.

This morning, she passed away peacefully at her home. The two nurses at the clinic and I walked over to pay our respects and pronounce the death.

The house was packed with relatives, friends and neighbors. The air was thick and shadows long. I stood at the back and felt my eyes swelter like many around me.

What I most clearly remember is a woman nudging the grandson to go to the bedside and place his hands on those of his deceased grandmother. The young boy initially resisted but in due time walked over and held in his small hands her weathered fingers.

He looked at her and I saw a flash of confusion across his face. He, like the rest of us, was uncertain what it all meant.

Forgiveness

I thought about forgiveness today.

Someone  told me this morning a long jagged personal story. It started with him openly cheating on his wife by living with another woman for months and only expatiated to involving children and acts of violence on the family. It all extended a few years in duration. A story similar to others I’ve heard many times.

However, this story was uncommon for two reasons. One, it wasn’t the victim telling me the story- it was the perpetuator. Two, he was forgiven.

I feel the stir within you.

He said that it had happened years ago. He emphasized that his wife accepted him back and he truly felt she and their children had forgiven him. He believed this as fact. He felt he would sense any residual anger his wife and kids would have from his misbehavior years ago and instead he felt only complete forgiveness from them. His body language lucidly expressed his conviction.

What would the betrayed, abused wife say if I asked her? How about the children who had witnessed and incurred violence?

I am not sure. But it did make me think about forgiveness today.