The artist is woven into their culture and language, a living being in a living system, as such their art will always have greatest meaning and healing power within their own community.
The healing brain has a powerful need to speak in the language of metaphor, pun and emotion - as such this is how artists communicate in their various mediums.
The artist is a healer of themselves and of others, for this is both the how and why humanity evolved such gifts.
The artist learns to carry beauty and put down pain, their art teaching others how to do the same.
The artist speaks in language beneath words, in the metaphor and visual pun, communicating as dreams do to the entire neurology. As such artists speak in the language of dreams in the hope of life becoming ever more dreamy.
You can write into the air; you can speak upon a page. A painting can be a novel and a story can paint the perfect picture. Dance can express such emotion and emotions can stir deep movements within even a chance observer. We dream in deep metaphors and visual puns, then weave them into stories that speak to every level of our consciousness. We artists speak with words and without; we artists are nature's soul-restoration crew.
Our artists are the kites of thinking, as are philosophers, dreamers... yet in truth they are our natural anchors to all the things that make living so wonderful. They are the bright gold in the grey, the red of the robin's breast. What is the technological dream without the beauty of a horse? Without the time to feel music soaked joy on a sun-shiny day?
"I don't think I ever saw Alice without paint on her hands and a dash in her auburn locks. It was as much a part of her as the smile she wore whenever I arrived at her doorstep. In moments we'd be in her kitchen, her putting a coffee pot on and me producing something from the bakers as if it were all a big unplanned surprise."
There was an excitement about Brian when he saw the view - already seeing it as a watercolour instead of the moving sea and beached fishing boats that it was. his hands came up as he chose the best angle and then without a word he jogged down to the car for supplies.
This art it pours out of me, as if my heart wishes to sing all day and all night. It is such a chatterbox, this heart of mine. It dances in the words as if it were performing a ballet, loving each tiny movement. It comes as a river, often gentle, yet with a flow that appears to have a sense of where it is going. It comes to be born rather than moulded, to show itself for what it is. It is a lot of me and a lot of divine inspiration, or that is how I see it when the artist truly loves, when the art is the proof of the loving heart.
The artist is born to lead everyone out of the the ideological prisons, they are all escape artists.