Passion's Expression ~ Reflections

A response to a friend, who asked me about the true mark of passion.

 

                 My friend asked me a very simple question last week. 'Do you think I am passionate about graphic design?' 'Why, of course,' I'd answered her, promptly, surprised that she should need to verify the fact., she said offhandedly, 'I really admire the way that you speak write on a continual basis, in a regular fashion.' Did she think that this was passion? I wondered. I presume that she thought about my efforts in such a way. One cannot commit their work to regulation without having some actual attachment to it. Passion itself must be born from a much deeper feeling. There needs to be a stronger connection present which is driving the process. In answer to this, I submit:

 

               

                There is, Bella, a connection to the work in hand. There is much more to what I do than simple process. In your own subtle way, I think you were trying to say to me that I write as an artist paints. Most artwork is created from an emotional value, for psychological reasons, for comfort when in distress, for strength when one is feeling weakness. You mused over the thought that the fabric of writing and art is not consistent, that there is no pattern to its matter. I though, have never confined myself to a strict process. What I write is an emotional outpouring of my feelings and thoughts. A spark of bright color, a word or an idea, the exchange of a whisper between two people parting- this is what catches my brain. As God has created man to be a complex design, each with his own personal id, life is unique.

                Because life itself is a sporadic design which people themselves create, a writer cannot write by his or her own unique merit- and therefore not stick to a schedule. A real artist, and a real writer, will rather 'process' what he or she sees on a regular basis, feeding instead off of the pattern of life. This pattern, as it were, is surprisingly distinct from the mathematical human mind. It cannot be broken down into concise, scientific facts or placed into precisely measured meters.

                The reason the writer writes is for the very reason that people seek to understand the spirit. Poetry, and the right-brained side of the human mind, is constantly reaching for something else. People in past times have referred to it as 'The Holy Grail.' Regardless of how we look at it, the artist searches for more than facts. In fact, I believe there is a minuscule part of every human mind which pines for the sporadic, the unthinking, the crazy radical in thought- though I may merely be describing the artist. There is something bizarre, unthinking, unpredictable, and wild,' within every human mind. Abstract painters, and various poets, engage in their art for no other reason than to break from the literal. In fact, I tend to think that artists fuel themselves from such an act- merely the sweet act of breaking from literal confines! Religious bodies of the church would note this as 'the soul breaking loose.' The poet may say that their soul is drawing close to God through their efforts.

                With this said, I think that it is incumbent for me to note my personal thoughts on passion. As artists cannot stay within the confines of a strict schedule, they are constantly working from their own passion. 'Passion,' as you and I may see it, could be derived merely from a single flower, the way that a leaf folds as it wilts beneath the sun, and curls in on its single dying breath. There is very little which we do that imagination does not provide us. The ability to engage in these acts outside of regularity, and- rather within the external beauty of the pattern the world grants to us, is the mark of artistic merit. And, by extension, this is also the mark of passion.

                So, as I see it, this is my answer to your question: passion is not provided to us through consistency, but our mutual desire to reach into that greater realm, that 'soul searching' or that sporadic beauty which the artist loves. Perhaps, we may say, that sporadic qualities themselves have become our life's gift-

                that which marks the passion in us.