A Meditation on Art, Beauty, Nature & Mystery (with Photographs)

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How can the artist praise our mutilated world? What can we do to make a difference as artists, especially, in times of calamity? I've never subscribed to the notion that art is useless—considering it's great capacity to uplift and inspire us.

If, as Keats famously said, Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all. Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know --then Beauty is far from being a superficial concern. It is essential to our well-being, morally, spiritually, even, physically.

We are less likely to destroy one another and our fragile planet, if we are made aware of the sanctity of all life. Art can do that.

What is a good photograph, after all, but an opportunity to see better and, in turn, give thanks for the wonder of creation.

I am fortunate to call nature photographer, Kent Burgess, a friend, whose exquisite photographs adorn this post. It's a privilege to gaze at our enchanted world through Kent's sensitive eyes.

Fields are much more sacred than the sanctuaries!
― Mehmet Murat ildan

Viewing his art from behind my computer screen, I am afforded an opportunity to commune with nature, and reminded to slow down and look around when, eventually, I do head outside.

How an artist captures the dignity of a tree, or the mystery of Light can alter one's perception of both, and help us develop a deepened appreciation for the natural world.

There is a serenity, but also a startling magic, in being granted a chance to witness nature with her guard down: the stillness and perfection of flowers or the majestic flight of birds.

These are everyday miracles that put us in a meditative state, where we are quietly able to appreciate the world and our place in it.

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There are a precious few lines, from a letter by the remarkable poet, Rilke, that say all what I'm trying to say better. Here they are:

It was within the power of the creative artist to build a bridge between two worlds…

It is our task to imprint this temporary, perishable earth into ourselves, so deeply, so painfully and passionately, that its essence can rise again, invisible, inside of us.

We are the bees of the invisible. We wildly collect the honey of the visible, to store it in the great golden hive of the invisible.