Troubadours Of The Lost Highways

The Artist

The Artist may see the lake colorful in the morning light and know that he must put this morning on a canvas saving this as a memory for many lifetimes.  The Artist makes the colors come alive, vibrant, bold yet with a certain softness, a canvas pleasant to view.  The lake will change with the seasons and the Artist will paint each one for prosperity, leaving the canvas as a legacy.

The Artist may never leave his studio, standing before his easel tightly holding the blank canvas.  He will fill the space with colors, dark with touches of light.  He will find the painting within the colors and shapes as the canvas reveals its imagery.  Each person that views the painting will see something different, it will mean many things to many people. It truly will be in the eyes of the beholder.

The Artist may be filled with passion, painting several canvases at a time.  He becomes shackled to his art.  He is like a star becoming a Nova, the brightest star in the night yet the flame will burn itself out.  There will be forever a dark hole in the night sky, perhaps the Artist will consume his art and then become consumed by the very thing he loves.  He must control the flame, turning it down so that it will last a lifetime.  He can only hope as the creations, the inspiration and the passion are the very things that fed the flame.  His paintings are bold, filled with flames, purples, bright reds and some say these are the colors of passion.

The true Artist may paint from within, releasing the image rather than creating the image.  They don’t worry about how the painting will turn out, only believing that the colors find their places on the canvas.  The end result completes the cycle of creation and looks to the next blank canvas.  The Artist turns the light off leaving only one spotlight lighting the canvas and walks out into the darkness.

Life gifts us with poets, writers, storytellers, artists, and troubadours. They are the chosen few, a band of hardcore troubadours that travel the lost highways together.

They sit and stare at the blank page at 3 a.m. in the morning waiting for the poem to awaken so that it may be unleashed. It will come, maybe not tonight but the poem and the poet will in time reveal its secrets.

When the night comes, we will all gather at the Writer’s Café, sharing our stories, writing sad songs, and putting to canvas the lost highway. Perhaps we might even find the shadow dancers and secret gardens of legend.