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When I looked around me today, all I saw was death, decay and icy endings, and I wondered what the hell God was thinking when he bothered to create something that couldn’t last.  The perfect being, self-contained and self-sustaining – why suddenly turn his hand to the needy world of temporality?  When you are a being of light and music and air [and in these things so far beyond their ideas we can only bring them as the palest comparison], why put your hand into a pit of dust?

And so I got to thinking, I suppose, about creation, and about artistry.

An artist is a creator, and a creator is someone who understands that a sandcastle is no less a work of art than a famous statue because it will not last beyond the next tide, or because there have been a million castles like it.  Is impermanence an argument against art?  Of course not!  All the works of men pass away – so too, if they are any kind of creation, will the works of God.  And similarity?  Repetitiveness?  It can be the work of the academic community to watch footnotes and pour avidly through the database and archives of their collective paranoid traditions for the slightest hint of plagiarism, of ‘intellectual theft’.  Is the artist so entirely base as to believe that dreams can be stolen?

For therein is the seed of a creator’s ideas: dreams.  Just as surely as it is the child’s dream they put into sandcastles and shapes of clay, so too it is the poet’s dream in the sonnet, or the painter’s on the canvas.  ‘Here is how the world might be’, they say: if some part of the vision exists in reality, all the better for the creator; if the dream is an impossible one, so be it; even if the dream is a nightmare, better that it is spoken aloud that left unsaid.  For this is the true genius of creation in all its myriad forms – not that it says ‘look at what I have created for its own sake’ but that it says ‘look what I have created because. – no prescription cialis online..look what my creation says in relation to the rest of creation.’  And it is from this knowledge that the cry but it’s not Art! springs.  Not from indignation at the form of the creation – from this comes genuine constructive criticism – but from the intent of it, from that which says ‘I am because I am’ and not ‘I am because…’  Humanity is that question to God’s creation, just as the artist’s creation is to everything around it: it need not always even be answered, but there must still always be an answer.