I have been privy to an ongoing drama between some art experts of late.  You know the ones, the curators, the art critics, the museum directors, the art historians, the art collectors, the art brokers, and the artists. They are deciding for the rest of us, what great art is, and what it is not.  Well, they are deciding for someone. I’m sorry, but they lost credibility with me when they decided noteworthy art is if one could urinate in an aquarium and float a picture.

     I won't reveal my source. That might make them stop and I haven't been this entertained in a long while. I am amused and a little irritated at the same time. For one thing, some of them wield a mighty sword in the art world. Their words can tear a creative soul to shreds, without giving the damage done, or the one damaged a second thought. I like to stay out of the way of people like that. Call me a coward but my own well-being is at stake here. I've never liked a critic of any kind. Why would anyone want to be called a critic? I realize that in this context that the meaning of critic is one who critiques. No thank you. And who are you, to me, anyway? 

      But for those that feel they must be critiqued or offer one up, I have borrowed a quote that I found somewhere. And it is this....

…lend your ears to music, open your eyes to painting, and….stop thinking.

Just ask yourself whether the work has enabled you to “walk about” into a hitherto unknown world.

If the answer is yes, what more do you want?

Kandinsky 1910

     The other day while driving in my car, the thought occurred to me that life is indeed like a mosaic. And then I could see the pieces. Each one was beautiful, perfect, and all of them were so unique.  My pieces seem scattered, like a million pieces that just don't quite fit together. Of course scattered, is not the same thing as shattered. The pieces are all still there, I  just have to figure out how to make it all fit together. So many pieces...

     It's transition time for me. Never, and I mean never, is transition a pleasant experience. Everything in my life suffers from the wake of it. But I digress, lest I bore you to death.

     The pieces will come together in my life and they will come together in yours too. It will be like a work of art that has once been started, it  must be completed. And it will be, as all artists know, completely different from what I had envisioned. It will be more beautiful. It will not come easy. It will not come together on my timetable. So I wait. And truly, so does everyone else that I know. We wait. We pick our pieces up and we examine them. We turn them over in our hands and in our minds. We work. Work is what we do. And one day, we will see what we have made. Be it good or be it bad, it is ours. And we, through our lives have touched many, but the work is ours and ours alone.

We, my friends, are free. Free to fly, and I can tell you from experience, the pieces are a lot easier to see from up here. And oh, what a magnificent puzzle it is!