CXV. The White Grape

November 8, 2013 — The white grape on my hors d’oeuvre plate rolled onto the floor in the corner in front of the closet, so I picked it up, wiped it off and ate it so it wouldn’t roll off in the center of the gathering and create a scene.

I was attending the annual artists reception at our local historic opera house. I walked along the walls of the two rooms, viewed all the pictures and incidental artwork. I finished eating my hors d’oeuvres, ate no cake for dessert, drank the small glass of opaque purple wine, exhibited in my hand like a royal crimson smudge on the chronicles of the peoples. I tossed my clear plastic plate and glass into the trash.

Moriarty came up behind me, then, tapped me on the shoulder and told me it was time to go. I remarked how amazed I always am at the wealth of local talent, and then I quietly exited down the stairs.

I removed my stick-on nametag as I descended the three flights. Against the outside brick wall of the opera house, well lit and encased in glass, I was keenly aware that I was exhibited in my descent.

I walked home alone in the dark.

Once home I ate a bowl of rich pumpkin soup from our nearby farm market and finished it off with bread pudding from our Odd Fellows Café. The works of artisans.

I sat out on my front porch after eating, sipping a glass of red Zinfandel, beneath the golden leaves of the walnut tree thriving in my flower bed, mourned its loss before it was gone, melancholic – the huzun, the Turks call it – soon to happen, for if it stayed in its place growing there under my porch, it would eat my house. I stared at the hundred year old Norway spruce etched against the night sky across the street.

Artists, I ruminated, know art comes from nowhere. The music of the spheres. What artists see and they create comes spontaneously. It’s not there and then it is. It is not something expected and then comes and you can arrogantly spout platitudes about or look down you nose about as you try to explain to lesser beings the work you have done. Works of art are not entities you can lord over awestruck others. Only the impresarios, the ones who present the art in a forum of camaraderie, food and wine or on a theater stage can do that. Artists simply visualize or hear the work and record it. Artists don’t know whence it comes, and they are humbled in that knowing, in its genesis and its presence.

It is with life the same. It’s temporal. We come, we exist, we exhibit what we create and then we quietly go.

There’s nothing to hold superior to that of others; all come and go, create and exhibit in their own ways, in their own time. There is parity in this.

There is no hierarchy; there are no mind games. Mind games are played by those caught in themselves, those mesmerized by their own images in the mirror – the adored but illusionary phantom.

Does art imitate nature or does nature imitate art? The proverbial and paradisal question, the eternal paradox. Does art merely mirror the spectator? Does art express anything but itself? Does it simply exist?

The white grape rolled off my plate and onto the floor in the corner in front of the closet. I bent and picked it up, wiped it off and ate it.

—Samantha Mozart

6 Responses to CXV. The White Grape

  1. kathy says:

    Goodness, this is SO beautifully written and SO, SO true. We don’t know where art comes from, and that is, indeed, humbling–something I’ve never understood but just appreciate for what it is. Mystery.

    Hugs from Ecuador,

    • sammozart says:

      Kathy, I am humbled by your kind compliment, coming from you who write so beautifully and masterfully yourself.

      Yes, the appearance of one’s work of art suddenly appearing on the page is humbling. Perhaps it comes because we do have the courage to explore the mystery….

      As always, I am so glad to see you here.

      Hugs back to you in Ecuador.

  2. Gwynn Rogers says:

    Susan’s words are so wise and extremely appropriate. As we look into the world we may or not appreciate what we see, but once it becomes a picture it can take on a whole new depth and with it perception. You truly paint an interesting piece of art. Beautifully stated.

    • sammozart says:

      Thank you, Gwynn. The art is in seeing the picture or hearing the music before you create it in physical form. Yes, depth of character and perception.

      The painters last evening inspired this word painter. Again, thanks for your kind compliment.

  3. Susan Scott says:

    Lovely Samantha thank you! There is no answer to the paradox of Art reflecting Nature or Nature, Art. Perhaps they are both and not exclusive to each other .. and is Beauty is the eye of the beholder?

    My eye perceives Beauty in your writing. It may be temporal but I like my reaction, NOW. This is what matters in my view …

    So, something sacred in your post in amongst the mundane of the rolling grape …

    • sammozart says:

      It’s all the same, isn’t it, Susan — art vs. nature or nature vs. art: the sacredness of the rolling grape. Yes, I believe beauty is in the eye of the beholder and the reaction in the now, because it IS temporal. And as we change, so do our perspectives.

      Thank you. I always enjoy your comments and deep thoughts. I wrote this one partly with you in mind.