Artists

They have neither visions nor great ideas,
their love for the art is in painting compressed.
When the madness around them, speeding full gears,
rides victoriously giddy right on the crest
of the wave of money and camera flashes,
their dreams of success are turning to ashes,
for the world is for those who bully or clown, -
but the true get a pill of disdain.
                Crushed down,
they’re living in poverty, often ignored,
letting colour and light be their lord.

And the critics of art ridicule them and mock
just because they have no intention to rock
with some quirky ideas the foundations of art.
All they have is a glow inside their heart
at the sight of the beauty created by God.

This becomes nowadays pathetically odd,
if one still is alive, but once you are dead,
there’s your chance to propel to the grade of a star:
your sunflowers suddenly turn into bread
with thick layers of butter spread with caviar
for the predator dealers with eyes so shrewd.

But it was not caviar that these artists pursued
when they painted a picture and searched for a hue;
it’s the truth of their feelings, a sense of the mood,
that was guiding the brush, that inspired to paint,-
for this task their hearts were by heavens ordained.

Their paintings today create a discord
with new trends to deride the sparks that are holy,-
yes, the public, alas, is too easily bored
and demands entertainment by seeking some folly
of the evil inside us, of a sensual shock.

And for this, the committees are ready ad hoc.
They’re giving the prizes to those who sell
cows formaldehyded or seek clientele
for the most authentic and wonderful shit
tinned and signed by con-men, with a genuine wit.

Cloaked in wisdom, obscenity stretches its nets
for the younger and vulnerable, and now it sets
traps in tenets of Fine Art education
by alluring their minds towards degradation
of the spirit of truth, of the spirit of love,
and betrayal of self, of the voice from above…

Yet, the art isn’t dead. Oh no, no, not yet!
Let the world wage its wars with its mightiest swords
waved by spirits employing the art critics’ hordes;
let the minds perverse prosper, vain and warped.

Those, longing for beauty, have no reason to fret:
catching moments eternal is a more worthy bet.
In this world or the other, they’ll have their hour.
So, they're zealously painting, being absorbed
in the glorious beauty of a splendid sunflower.

12 November 2011