How Do They Know?

My town hosted a celebration of one of our most well-known artists last week.  It would have been Dr. I.B. Beale’s 100^th birthday, were he still with us.  He was a painter who captured a multitude of scenes around the area during his years in Centerville.  I loaned my two Beale watercolors for display and as I was taking them off the wall, I recalled an article I wrote about “Doc” many years ago. 

 

By the time I wrote my story, he was a considered a senior citizen, although thinking of him as a “old person” would not enter the mind of anyone who knew him.  “If you never sold a painting,” I asked, “would you still paint?”  He looked at me like I was crazy.  “Of course I would,” he said.  It was the answer I expected.  If a work of art appears and asks an artist to serve, it’s the duty of the artist to serve.

My great aunt’s drama teacher took it a step further.  She said that if God gives you a creative gift, it’s not only a duty to use it, but also a sin not to use it.  My great aunt took it to heart and, as comedian Minnie Pearl, gave the gift of laughter to audiences all over the world for over fifty years.

I have been fortunate enough to have known and been around many creative people in my life.  Musicians, writers, painters, needle-workers, woodworkers, performers – all had one thing in common and that was a dedication to their gift, whatever it was.  I’ve also been fortunate to have a tremendous love of reading, which has introduced me to the creative process in people I’ve never met, during times that were not my time.  

Even after all that, it’s still a mystery to me how it works. I have, in a small way, experienced creation myself.  Time spent staring at a blank page, hoping words will eventually fill the pages.  Waking up with words tumbling through your head while you scramble for a paper and a pen that will write.  It’s not always easy.

There is something that compels the artist to paint, the musician to play, the writer to write and the sculptor to sculpt.  But how do they do it? How does a cook know exactly what herb is needed in a new creation, or when to stop adding the spice that makes a humdrum dish a masterpiece? How did a 24-year-old John Prine know how to write Hello in There? How did Kris Kristofferson know to put together the line about echoing "through the canyons like disappearing dreams of yesterday?" How did a deaf Beethoven know how the Ninth Symphony would sound?

How does an artist know exactly which color to use for that little glimmer of light in the corner of his painting of a storm – or know to place a golden leaf in just the right spot on a gray tree trunk?

How does a sculptor know what image lurks in the clay?  How does a woodcarver know what is contained in the heart of a block of wood?  How does a quilter know just what colors to place side by side in a patchwork stitched together with love, a quilt that warms not only the body but the soul?

I don’t understand it – no one really does.  But somehow creation still happens, in spite of the hurting world we live in and maybe because of it.  Artists still paint their souls on canvas.  Musicians still pour out healing words, whether it’s in a stadium filled with cheering fans or on a dusty stage in an out of the way honky-tonk.  Writers still are compelled to share secrets of life and love, to make readers laugh or cry, to help them understand what they didn’t even know they needed to know. Filmmakers and photographers still know just how to capture the moments that tug at our heartstrings or inspire us to try to heal the hurting people in the world.  The more I think about it, the more I believe that the artists are the real prophets and preachers.  We will never know exactly how they do it.  Maybe we don’t need to know.  We just need to be grateful that they do.