Life Is Like Art. You

Growing Up, I'd Already Decided I Wanted To Be A Beatnik. A Bohemian Poet, I Thought. Or A Musician. Maybe An Artist. I'd Dress In Black Turtlenecks And Smoke Gitanes. I'd Listen To Cool Jazz In Clubs, Getting Up To Read Devastating Truths From My Notebook, Leaning Against The Microphone, Cigarette Dangling From My Hand.

There Are Few Joys To Compare With The Telling Of A Well-told Tale.

I Envy The Music Lovers Hear. I See Them Walking Hand In Hand, Standing Close To Each Other In A Queue At A Theater Or Subway Station, Heads Touching While They Sit On A Park Bench, And I Ache To Hear The Song That Plays Between Them: The Stirring Chords Of Romance's First Bloom, The Stately Airs That Whisper Between A Couple Long In Love. You Can See It In The Way They Look At Each Other... You Can Almost Hear It. Almost, But Not Quite, Because The Music Belongs To Them And All You Can Have Of It Is A Vague Echo That Rises Up From The Bittersweet Murmur And Shuffle Of Your Own Memories.

The Best Artists Know What To Leave Out.

As Children, We Come Into The World With A Natural Desire To Both Speak And Draw. Society Makes Sure That We Learn Language Properly, Right From The Beginning, But Art Is Treated As A Gift Of Innate Genius, Something We Either Have Or Don't.