Marisa Porter

The artist is not made for the world, and therefore the world does not fit or understand him. The Artist goes forth with starry eyes to touch the world with what has touched him, expecting mountains of hierarchy and authority to move, and they do not. They turn their back on him. They are stone cold in the face of his art. The artist is bewildered to find the structure does not bend. It is not even touched. The artist may go through so many disappointments he decides he will not “be an artist” anymore. And therein is the irony and glory – he cannot stop. His straight and narrow circumstances cause him to create again. His injury inspires his poetry.

Again, the artist is not understood by the world, for art is this: a sentence from heaven. A music chord from a heavenly song. A feather falling from an angel’s wing.

The artist rejoices when art, even other’s art, moves the masses. He knows he has had a glimpse of what he was made for.

The artist is not understood by this world, because art is not of this world, but of heaven.