how about it ay?

Mournful and yet grand is the destiny of the artist. That is at least what da Vinci claimed. And he wasn't alone to utter something of the kind. I often wonder if the artist in truth isn't somewhat of a magician. How else can it be that an artist can capture and sculpt the image of reality, into his or her own agenda? And art can capture and trigger so much more than words and reality. Isn't it then to reason that it is magic of some dedication?

You can't run for ever
You haveta pick up the pen one day
You can't hit the road again
You can't hide nomore

the Tables turned

AN EVENING SCENE , ON THE SAME SUBJECT

Up! Up! my friend, and clear your looks,
Why all this toil and trouble?
Up! Up! my friend, and quit yours books,
Or surly you'll grow double.

The sun above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow,
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife,
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music; on my life
There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
And he is no mean preacher;
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless -
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by chearfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man;
Of mortal evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things;
- We murder to dissect.

Enough of science and of art;
Close up these barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.

alright, yes! We're here again.

I've been struggling, trying to remember who I am - who I want to be, what I want to make of my future. This is an old theme of mine, I am aware. See I know who I am today, and how I came to be here. And very little of my path so far has been regrettable. I know how I got here and I also know I've wandered immensely far from who I essentially know I could be - if I let my self be the one I am deep down or started out as.

These last couple of years I have undermined a lot of who I am. There are many reasons, some due to duty and obligation, others just for survavial. And no, I am not sulking, or whining, mearly stating a fact and trying to put words to the flowting feeling I've been having since I last December acknowledged that I had let the artist go.

I don't regret the path I've taken here, nor do I think I could have done so differently if I had know then what I now see. Nonetheless, I am feeling disconected and worried that my artistic skill has vanished. See, I used to have a name as one of the few young artist in the Norwegian artist community. In many ways that as been my identity, I am still that artist by name, but by skill I don't seem to fit the description any more. I know my craft but only in theory, cause when I try to do what I used to visualise with careful skill, I now only seem to get on paper - not on canvas.

Ideas I get all around, all my surroundings inspire some brilliant artistic concept. Yet I think perhaps over work and dislocation has severed a part of persona. If such a thing was possible, I mean we all change. Change is good. But can you have changed by severing apart of your self that you still view as your own?