It’s appropriate that I start my blog with this little story I wrote the other week. It sums up how I’ve been feeling about creative people lately -only without the swearing.
At a party, I found myself sitting next to a musician, a painter and a poet. They acknowledged my existence with perfunctory nods, but returned to their conversation about the specimen of female perfection standing at the opposite side of the bar.
My gaze fell on the subject matter – a willowy girl resembling the vixen from the box of Redhead matches. Only her youth and inexperience prevented her from lighting up the room.
The three artists were arguing over who amongst them would be the most likely to charm this Pre-Raphaelite beauty.
The painter was not the sort who breathed Beauty and drank Absinthe. He had found some commercial success and knew the power of networking.
He said to the musician, ‘Surely with your musical talents, you can control anyone in this room. By the correct arrangement of seven notes at the right time and timbre, you can make the old remember their youth, men cry and women love.’
The musician was not as commercially successful as the painter but he sang the sweetest songs and knew the power of flattery.
‘But when you paint the correct light and tone across your canvas, you weave stories about people and places. Surely you can manipulate anyone in this room.’
Still the painter demurred in favour of the poet – a gauche man who spoke in tongues.
‘Has not history proven that poetry is the food of love?’
At this point, I slipped across the room and bought the lady a drink. She turned out to be a very well-informed young lady studying law. While we discussed the flaws of our legal system, the three artists continued to debate the merits of their art forms well into the night.