When I look in the mirror I see my battle scars, though time comes and goes, the marks never do. They are creases and scratches that dug so deep into me on my journey to success; I no longer live passionately but fearfully. What if all I have to offer the world fails to fit the standard, their standard.. Whoever they are. I quickly go for the bandage in hopes of covering, recovering, in hopes of making myself whole. I look better, I feel the same. My face becomes the canvas and I paint it relentlessly. Am I art yet?
The city from afar with all its power and glory mocks me as it is representative of the beauty I will never obtain; perfection surrounds me even here. The Cathedral seemingly elegant despite its large mass, is confident and stands her ground, grabs your attention, requests your admiration. I wish I could be more like that. The pears on the trees are ripening, while branches on either side of me lean back as if a child has just awoken with a great big yawn. These branches have paved my way, perhaps if I follow them through, I too can become like them; rhythmic, consistent, purposeful. I run down and away to find a healing spring that can rid me of my scars and replace them with the beauty I see here.
As I come up I cannot help but notice something quite unexpected, a barrier. A single element successfully failed at continuing the rhythmic pattern I had just admired. This staircase, however strange, seems to be turning toward me as if to call my name, invite me. The barrier has now become an opportunity, one I simply cannot refuse.
I make my way up, past the crowd, and toward the road less travelled. From a distance I can make out a small movement. One moment this object is skidding right, the next it jumps out of sight only to gracefully land once again. It isn’t until I get closer that I can feel the thud these feet create each time gravity pulls them back. I get closer even still and as I reach the end of the staircase I am directly focused on these dancing shoes. The art of dance is incredible indeed and I have just now come to terms with the fact that our common perception that it is solely about these figures soaring through space effortlessly, flawlessly, is wrong. The tears and rips on these ballet slippers remind me of my own wounds. It becomes evident that the amount of times this dancer has failed and fallen is unquestionably countless. All of a sudden my admiration toward this art increased by threefold and my only wish was to walk with this dancer, to dance with her and tell her of my story, of my journey, and my scars. And so I do. I grab the opposite railing and follow her lead, up up down down up down up up up up.
My next step brings with it a change in atmosphere. The calmness I just experienced is replaced by anticipation for what is to come. I feel cold and bare without the warmth of the wood and without the sun beaming down on me. Yet the light never fails to guide my path as it finds its way through the jagged railing that seems to have been carved out of the wall for my convenience. If I didn’t feel cold before I do now as my fingers begin to trace this rough concrete and press down on it as I pull myself up to the next steep step. I am closer to the top, finally, and I begin to make out the shape of two men standing back to back with arms wide open, they are stationary. It isn’t until I find my way to the very top that I realize these men are in fact sculptures standing in crucifix form. With their backs turned away from one another it seems as if they are opposing each other; their eyes are apertures and I cannot help but sense that they do in fact have different views, they are in disagreement yet somehow still physically connected. I am urged to move forward and look through these eyes, what do they keep looking at? To understand the view the man on the left is looking at I must look through the eyes of the man on the right, and alas I am brought to a garden full of art pieces similar to that which I’m grasping. Their beauty and craft is clear to me and I admire them from afar.
On the opposite side I see where these sculptures originated from, I see the sculptors hard at work and I leave the viewing machine to approach them. As I sit along the concrete ledge I cannot help but remember the carved railing with the similar texture. I watch how the sculptor takes the harshness of different materials and uses his hands to mold and shape them as he pleases. His hands are rough and dirty as the medium of his choice scratches and stains them. These hands that have created this stunning art are scarred and these scars become trophies celebrating his dedication, his talent, and most importantly his story: failures and successes.
Moving past this space I must replace the rough texture of the concrete with something lighter, smoother, weightless as if one was preparing for flight. I grasp the copper railing and make my way up and out of reach. As I turn the corner a wave of color floods my eyes and I am blinded by its beauty, blinded by the way it looks as if its only desire is to crumble upon itself and let go, fall. Yet it has managed to hold onto this wall resiliently and has allowed the whole world to witness and admire its beautiful deterioration.
I find shelter within this old brick building that has invited me in. One of its windows has been shattered and replaced by an emptiness that begs to be occupied. As I enter this small opening I am presented with wooden panels with their backs to me, as if trying to keep me out, yet an opportunity to approach a curtain wall at the far end gives me enough reason walk toward it. I make my way through, clutching the railing for dear life. I look down into the space below, full of stunning paintings, some that I recognized from the art gallery in town. How an artist is capable of producing such flawless work is beyond me. They express their opinions and ideas in a seemingly effortless manner through their work. I wish that my voice could be heard like theirs. As I turn to head out, I realize the wooden panels that initially refused me had changed their mind. They’d become windows into a painter’s backstage – the place from which all these wonderful, admirable ideas in galleries and museums originate. Suddenly, the idea of ‘process’ becomes apparent. I take everything in – the wide assortment of utensils lying on floors and desks, the scribbles and cross-outs and nonsensical writing on scattered pieces of paper. I realize that without the messy process and silly mistakes, innovative, authentic, art would never be created. Nor would innovative and authentic people.
I head out again and begin to piece my experience together like a puzzle.
Intentionally breaking away from an expected path to explore something new can never be done without leaving the experimenter touched and marked. Those who are fearless enough to go through these winding, rocky journeys are the only ones capable of leaving their own mark on the world. As all this starts to come to perspective the sound of music increases and I choose to take this winding road till I cant anymore.
I enter the elevator and it is completely silent but the music still rings in my ears and, if anything, becomes more forceful to parallel my gradual excitement as every second brings me closer toward a great realization. As the doors open I am in awe once again by the art that surrounds me. The city lights engulf me and I just stare in amazement.
This time however, I know what is to come. I know that this beauty must be linked with a form of imperfection and I needed to find it. I turn, and further down I see an aperture peeking out behind a large concrete wall. I approach this final view slowly and begin to make out the horizon, the harbor, the highway, and all that was underneath it, which was nothing more than dead space. Dead space was the consequence of efficiency and here I am left to look at this enormous, unintentional scar that runs through a part of the city we try to ignore and turn away from. We distract ourselves with pretty lights and success stories to hide our mistakes and our failures but these scars exposed are the most authentic and raw form of beauty we know. They are signs of persistence, they are signs of perfect imperfections, and they are signs of humanity.
I turn my back to the view only to find myself placed in it. When I looked in the mirror I saw my battle scars, though time comes and goes, the marks never do and never will, I am art.