This evening I found myself completely overwhelmed with a burning passion of love- love that not only speaks to a tender heart but stems from one itself. This, for better or worse, is the heart of the artist. It is a heart unlike those of others, in that it is incapable of forgetting all past loves, lusts, passions, and triumphs. Like the architect’s blueprints, Love is what guides an artist through any project- be it a sonnet, soliloquy, portrait, or sculpture. Behind every great work of art is often a greater love.
I once said to a friend, “True love is never lost. It always lives on to inspire the poets, the actors, the painters- all of us in this world. You’re love has done that for me now.” I do not believe I have ever stated as true a fact as that. The love my friend felt for her beau was unyielding, despite their breakup, and that is why it is the most powerful tool in an artist’s arsenal. We embrace it; unafraid to wield the destructive effect of a broken heart. Others are quick to forget and move on with their lives- to burn those love letters, to delete the pictures off Facebook, to return the tokens of love the relationship bore.
And I ask, why? Forget the artist, the artist only brings out what is already inside you, no matter how deep. Hold on to those keepsakes and those memories, they will make you a stronger human being, I promise you. Yes, it hurts, but God knows the pain will pass and many years down the road when you’re home alone, you will be able to pull out that old shoebox and laugh to yourself; rather than live through an emptiness and regret because you chose to discard the greatest force in the universe, which is Love.
Don’t get me wrong, that “love” an artist feels does not have to have a source in another person. There are physical passions, yes, but there is also love for nature, creation, and the urge to emote what the rest of humanity has buried deep within itself. I have a passion for acting, yes, but that passion comes from a sense of duty that I feel to my fellow man: to forever remind them of the pictures long since forgotten and to expose them for the loving creatures they are.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixèd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.