Somewhere deep in the microscopic world of you and me there are secrets about the world that haven’t been told. Spiritual residue sits in wait for a trigger to release a new creation of imagination – stories of what is here and what is yet to come.
It is the art heart. It is that image of God perfection that gives flesh to the questions. It is possibility and reality muddied into an undefinable colour. It speaks a truth not yet understood. With the first exhale there is a cry: “Creator!”
Subdued it finds its proper place of style and expression. Released but tamed it finds an outlet. All the while it knows this world is not its home. We are strangers here wading through foreign objects to our soul. Channel inspiration. Give it substance. But still it beats … there must … be more … there is … much more.
Creator. That is what we have become, living as impressionists of the first. His breath gave it life. The artist, the prophet, the mystic – describe to us what we cannot see. Tell us what could be.
This. This is the art heart in me.