Living can be hard, the road vague, but we can memorize to
bring art materials and friends!
There was a breathtaking New York Times article back in April 21, 2014 on the importance of
friendship. Although most of the article was about how friendship actually
helps us live longer, healthier lives, it was the very end of the article that
caught my eye.
Researchers calculated 34 students at the college
of Virginia, captivating them to
the base of a precipitous hill and fitting them with a slanted backpack. They
were then asked to estimate the steepness of the hill. Some participants stood
next to friends during the exercise, while others were alone.
The students who stood with friends gave lower estimates of
the gradient of the hill. And the longer the links had famous each other, the more
steep the hill appear.
“Citizens with stronger friendship network feel like there
is a big shot they can turn to,” said Karen A. Roberto, director of the center
for gerontology at Virginia Tech.
“Friendship is an undervalued resource. The consistent message of these studies
is that friends formulate your life better.”
So here's today's challenge based on the 13th secret of our
14 secret for a Happy Artist's Life: compose art with friends. The path will be
less difficult, the hill will be easier to climb. If you can't find a friend to
make are with at this moment, then make art as a gift. See how it feels.
Enjoy it!!! As always, feel free to share your work or play on Histogram
by adding #14Secrets Challenge to your description, or by adding your photo to
our Flickers pool.
old clouds climbed the back of a peak, rising
leisurely we trudged up a rutted road with same design
residence of bent and twisted sticks leaned before us
its dirt floor harmonized sky, road and mountain top
full mud sealed crooked poles held together by rusted wire
undernourished old man sat weaving tiny baskets on gray-dirt floor
effective with swollen hands, brown feet, his teeth
more rapidly than any shrewd student's eye could follow
in the order of him stood proud relatives in all shapes and sizes
kids played with pine-cone toys in gray-black yard
the best clad wore rags too dirty to check my car's oil
one little basket inside another little basket until I counted twelve
the largest was three inches square, all the rest fit inside
otherwise engaged students stood stupefied
someone asked how much, the old man shyly said, "Two dollars!"
but quickly added, "For all of them, they fit inside one another."
Two weeks later Ecuador was another distant memory
in la Plaza de Cultura a painter brushed pigment on canvas
crowd of friendly faces appeared as color collected color
cobblestones, cars and ancient buildings took on crooked shapes
carefully mixed tints brought tourists and natives together
mesmerized, I watched the brush stroke each detail into reality
cemented in place permanently was the painter's world
among the faces of family and friends sat a carver I recognized
half hidden by a pole near the edge of the painted gathering
I looked out onto the Plaza to find the artist's inspiration
pointing at the painted image, I asked, "Where is that man?"
The painter paused and proudly exclaimed in Spanish,
"I watched him whittle faces from wood in a small Andean village."
I knew the face, the place and recalled watching him work
chipping chunks from blocks, he freed people hiding inside
sitting on a stoop in front of a small shack, the red chips flew
a rough hat, a big nose, a forked beard and knowing eyes
each gained shape and form with the hooked blade of his knife.
Finished, he asked, "Would you like to buy it? Four dollars!"
My hand reached into my pocket before the carver could finish
the painter brushing his name near bottom brought me back
setting the crowd aside to dry, he turned to face the souvenir stands
looked at me, and asked, "Would you buy that for forty dollars?"
Costa Rica sure wasn't Ecuador, so I apologized for being broke.
A year lathers Guthrie for Macbeth to begin
an exhibit by an unknown took up our time on the second floor
numerous sterile empty beige rooms held works hanging from hooks
nothing could have made art less romantic, brain numbing
I stood before a field filled with blue trees and yellow grass
my girlfriend tugged at my sleeve, "Come see this, in the corner!"
Near the back, under soft lights, were three small paintings
first was an old man weaving baskets in a crowded Spanish plaza
next was a painter painting a painter on the cobblestone street of a village
third was a carver surrounded by family in front of a mud-stick shack
staring at each, I put the distant pieces of my life together
memories haunted each work like ghosts stolen from my mind
I found myself watching a clean old basket maker hard at work
a painter struggling with a self portrait on a street in the Andes
a carver working to keep his family fed and dry in a mud shack.
Lying on your front was about to begin, but I couldn't leave my reality.
leisurely we trudged up a rutted road with same design
residence of bent and twisted sticks leaned before us
its dirt floor harmonized sky, road and mountain top
full mud sealed crooked poles held together by rusted wire
undernourished old man sat weaving tiny baskets on gray-dirt floor
effective with swollen hands, brown feet, his teeth
more rapidly than any shrewd student's eye could follow
in the order of him stood proud relatives in all shapes and sizes
kids played with pine-cone toys in gray-black yard
the best clad wore rags too dirty to check my car's oil
one little basket inside another little basket until I counted twelve
the largest was three inches square, all the rest fit inside
otherwise engaged students stood stupefied
someone asked how much, the old man shyly said, "Two dollars!"
but quickly added, "For all of them, they fit inside one another."
Two weeks later Ecuador was another distant memory
in la Plaza de Cultura a painter brushed pigment on canvas
crowd of friendly faces appeared as color collected color
cobblestones, cars and ancient buildings took on crooked shapes
carefully mixed tints brought tourists and natives together
mesmerized, I watched the brush stroke each detail into reality
cemented in place permanently was the painter's world
among the faces of family and friends sat a carver I recognized
half hidden by a pole near the edge of the painted gathering
I looked out onto the Plaza to find the artist's inspiration
pointing at the painted image, I asked, "Where is that man?"
The painter paused and proudly exclaimed in Spanish,
"I watched him whittle faces from wood in a small Andean village."
I knew the face, the place and recalled watching him work
chipping chunks from blocks, he freed people hiding inside
sitting on a stoop in front of a small shack, the red chips flew
a rough hat, a big nose, a forked beard and knowing eyes
each gained shape and form with the hooked blade of his knife.
Finished, he asked, "Would you like to buy it? Four dollars!"
My hand reached into my pocket before the carver could finish
the painter brushing his name near bottom brought me back
setting the crowd aside to dry, he turned to face the souvenir stands
looked at me, and asked, "Would you buy that for forty dollars?"
Costa Rica sure wasn't Ecuador, so I apologized for being broke.
A year lathers Guthrie for Macbeth to begin
an exhibit by an unknown took up our time on the second floor
numerous sterile empty beige rooms held works hanging from hooks
nothing could have made art less romantic, brain numbing
I stood before a field filled with blue trees and yellow grass
my girlfriend tugged at my sleeve, "Come see this, in the corner!"
Near the back, under soft lights, were three small paintings
first was an old man weaving baskets in a crowded Spanish plaza
next was a painter painting a painter on the cobblestone street of a village
third was a carver surrounded by family in front of a mud-stick shack
staring at each, I put the distant pieces of my life together
memories haunted each work like ghosts stolen from my mind
I found myself watching a clean old basket maker hard at work
a painter struggling with a self portrait on a street in the Andes
a carver working to keep his family fed and dry in a mud shack.
Lying on your front was about to begin, but I couldn't leave my reality.
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