Art is the only thing left of a civilisation when it has disapeared and it's the first manifestation of a culture, the collective soul. And if art is a mirror held up to nature, the style and shape given by a civilisation to express a particular vision brings forth the fruit of a mysterious communication, a spirit of time and place. Of all the existing powers coveted by humans none is so sublime as the power to create and artists have been taping into it since time immemorial with humble means. An inexplicable magic is born of a simple and very human need. Not trying to possess but rather emulating it within ourselves to share as nature does. This strange practice is difficult, long and terribly uncertain a times, it demands the best one has to give. It serves it's own purpose and when the fire is lit, it must be fed devoutly so the heart's dream might be expressed. Once the choice is arrested on a composition, one must stay true to inspiration otherwise the goal will not be reached. Art in it's essence cannot be an accident, it is the language of light in the most profound sens.
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