Dear Journal,
I have had an epiphany. Here in this bed, with "Ode to Joy" stuck in my head, I thought to myself, "this could drive a person crazy!" So now I know why many would say artists are crazy, er, “eccentric.” A master or ever a dabbler in the arts must become so in tune with the chosen medium that the craft appears everywhere. To a painter, the world is made of color. To a writer, even life itself often requires the “willing suspension of disbelief.” To a sculptor, the world must be a vast museum of shapes, sizes, angles, textures...To a musician, even a crooked ceiling fan beats a steady rhythm and hums at a certain pitch.
“Oh, the artist’s life must be beautiful,” you might say. You wouldn’t be entirely incorrect in saying so; appreciation for the aesthetic has a way of making one search for the aesthetic in, and so appreciate, nearly everything. Where is the eccentricity in all of this?
Consider for a moment that aforementioned crooked ceiling fan. An unleveled ceiling causes it to rock ever so slightly at approximately 69 beats per minute, a slow to moderate tempo at which several tunes could be hummed. These melodies repeat tirelessly in the mind of a musician who tries in vain to rest his or her mind in a bed beneath that fan. This person lays in bed hearing grace notes in intervals of perfect fourths and fifths for what seems like a lengthy amount of time. Finally seeking the owner of the house, who was probably in a most pleasant dream, the disgruntled musician in nightgown and slippers demands that something be done about that infernal ceiling fan! Or perhaps the hopeful sleeper simply turns the fan up or down in hopes of finding a beat conducive to some other tune, one that may set the mind at ease and lead to sleep.
Such incidents, having perfectly logical explanations, may very well have contributed for centuries to eccentric caricatures of the artist.
Perhaps this irritation seems unreasonable to you. Perhaps crazy is a relative term, after all.
“Oh, the artist’s life must be beautiful,” you might say. You wouldn’t be entirely incorrect in saying so; appreciation for the aesthetic has a way of making one search for the aesthetic in, and so appreciate, nearly everything. Where is the eccentricity in all of this?
Consider for a moment that aforementioned crooked ceiling fan. An unleveled ceiling causes it to rock ever so slightly at approximately 69 beats per minute, a slow to moderate tempo at which several tunes could be hummed. These melodies repeat tirelessly in the mind of a musician who tries in vain to rest his or her mind in a bed beneath that fan. This person lays in bed hearing grace notes in intervals of perfect fourths and fifths for what seems like a lengthy amount of time. Finally seeking the owner of the house, who was probably in a most pleasant dream, the disgruntled musician in nightgown and slippers demands that something be done about that infernal ceiling fan! Or perhaps the hopeful sleeper simply turns the fan up or down in hopes of finding a beat conducive to some other tune, one that may set the mind at ease and lead to sleep.
Such incidents, having perfectly logical explanations, may very well have contributed for centuries to eccentric caricatures of the artist.
Perhaps this irritation seems unreasonable to you. Perhaps crazy is a relative term, after all.
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| Maybe Beethoven's ceiling fan was out of adjustment... Just a thought! |
We're all mad here, dear. I get lost in paintings and draw shapes on my hands and study faces to a degree that probably unnerves their owners and tonight sketched a portrait when I meant to be getting some work done...and I think it's kind to call that 'eccentric.'
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