Saturday, June 20, 2009
The Power Of
This writing came to life after I observed Pablo Picasso's painting titled " The Blue Guitar".
I must have been 18. maybe 17. On a school field trip to the local museum. Or maybe in an art book in an art class. The blue guitar was the name of the painting. By Pablo Picasso el hombre mas incredibile en el mundo te digo pero la guitara con el hombre, si, los dos … Fuerza incredibile. But the force of the painting stopped me then and it stopped me now much older in life, supposedly more carved with the claws of life but the feeling.
That feeling. Was the same. Ever wonder why there are things out there that make you stop? Like moments. People. A breeze. A voice. A thought. A vision on the street. Why do we stop?
The power of.
They say in each and every one of us lies the seed of history. Pablo was a human being like each and every one of us with a dream to be an artist. But things got rough and this artist paints The Blue Guitar right after a close friend commits suicide. Four years. Four years he spent in grief – they call them the blue years.
What feelings moved that paint brush? What force of true, pure gush of sincerity. And the seed of history in Pablo sprouted like a blue rose out of his blood into his veins moving the tip of his fingers holding the paint brush stroking the canvas in blue and blue and blue. Because you see. Yes. You see.
You see the canvas and the man with his guitar. And you stop. And you don’t know what power is this that makes you, an ordinary human being walking by, to stop. Gripped by something. You don’t know what. In that painting. The power of.
In this way, Pablo Picasso becomes a man of history, because now, before, and forever his art speaks to the hearts of people for ages and ages to come. Can you, tell me, yes, in my ear….whisper to me…. can you do the same?
Men of history. People of history. They must have been just like you and me, who, suddenly, found themselves in blue. Blue years of grief. Like our Prophet. Yes. Him. Prophet Muhammad (PBUH). Need we number the grief he’s gone through?
I fear that I live life and feel sorrow, but not all of my sorrow. and love, but not all of my love. Then I have not lived.