Wednesday, November 30, 2011
A Blank Page
I enjoy spending my time dabbling in creative arts, but I almost always feel that the blank page I was staring at before is more beautiful than whatever I put on it. It's not to say that whatever I created is so awful it shouldn't exist, but rather I usually prefer that moment in time where I'm just about to put my pen or pencil or brush to paper and I see my whole work completed in its entirety in my head, and it is beautiful, and in that moment, it has every possibility of coming to fruition. So I draw a line, I write a word and I can't exactly mimic what it is that was in my head. It's as though I know what I want to create, but I don't know how to create it. This is probably due to my insufficient skill, and I assume (though I'm not sure I hope) that with time and practice my actual creations will be just as beautiful as I what I had envisioned, but for now I'm content to be happy revel in the possibilities afforded by a blank page. I can't decide whether this means beauty in this case is perfection or possibility for me, but maybe it's a mixture of both plus something else I overlooked.