The true measure of an artist’s life is NOT
*in how many drawings one makes
*nor in how “good” they are
*nor how much money they fetch…
…but rather in a stouthearted search for beauty in everything:
*in the little as well as the big
*in the mundane and the magical
*in calm as well as chaos
*in peace and also pain.
We wield our pens to draw out the lovely contained in anything, even d’un beau affreux (the ugly beautiful).
Recently, I sat with my husband on a crisp fall day gazing into our chiminea. I caught my breath as the flames revealed a beautiful labyrinth of lines etched into the burning logs. After running inside to get my pen and sketchbook, I tried following the lines to etch them onto my paper, mesmerized as I went along. I did not expect to find beauty in a chiminea.
Even in a furnace of affliction, beautiful lines are revealed as the fire rages. We need eyes to see it and a sketchbook to record it.
This is how I want to spend my life.
Measured or not.