Impressions of Mariposa Night & Guerrilla Gallery, March 27th
Last Friday something magical happened on a warm stage under moonlight. It was a certain something that cannot be re-created.
But I will try, anyway.
There was a voice: a mother-tongue, Peruvian Español, rich and shadowy, evoking bittersweet one-sided self-destructive love. As words, in English, glowed white against black, beside her. An electric guitar echoing the amplified pain of longing. And another voice—emotional and raw, expressing the freedom of rock-n-roll bravado, held by the sounds of rowdy guitar and happy drums, fierce & crisp. And another voice—embodying heart and soul, awakening god in us with her sumptuous spirit-song to the warm sound of a bass walking into notes. And there were those who seized the sticks—drumming up new sounds behind the recorded music—allowing the insides to be heard. And the one who dared to sing into the microphone—discovering the good glory mirror of amplified voice.
And then there were the faces of the children glowing on the screen. Impressions of their growing spirit, told in voice, and as paint on a wall, of a school, struggling to exist. And children also ran through the space, creating shadows of monsters and gestures over the green glowing mariposa of the night.
And then there were those who made their marks on the shared page—children and adults—inking the white with fresh love thoughts and faces and choices in color.
And there were the paintings made of palettes of silk—colors and worlds invented. And there were the paintings of color play from a family living life as art. There was the one who brought her object-friends, creations from the found world. Who was also the one who almost didn’t share her art story made of reimagined truth. The book that strung together a life of meaning and heartbreak and love. Bravely, she leapt into the unknown—baring her heart with hopes to be witnessed. She leapt and found the floor growing underfoot in the form of beautiful faces and tears of recognition. Awakening the longing we all feel through the telling of a truth story. And old friends were created—recognizing themselves in new faces. A film made in La Cuidad, traveled by internet, flickered on screen: a story of the insanity of commitment when fueled by elevated spirit. And in the end, the contagion of dance took over the steps & the floor & the stage--hearts and bodies expanded in mental abandon & perfect unison.
All of this helps me see:
When you open up to spirit, creativity is limitless. In order to manifest it, we must ignite our passion for truth, which illuminates our underground excavations. We don’t mind the digging, if we are in service of the gift giving. It’s god’s work, we happily discover, as we leap into darkness. We use our faith as a catch-all. A trampoline big enough for us all to bounce together. Every individual leap grows the collective heart. And this, like creativity, is limitless. Art grows the heart, and the heart creates art.
And this:
What if it were really true?
That we have a choice, after all, in our fate?
That we could choose how big we become. And how much we let our hearts sing. On one side of the split it can feel so hopeless. When we are grabbing at air in the dark and all we feel is the impossibility of becoming. But then, leaping across the split—connecting at the center—we are slapped suddenly with seeing that we never did stop being who we are really are, not even for a moment. Timelessness, as art, belongs to all of us, and can be felt the moment we stop grasping at the future as if it were a thing. As if we were a thing. We are a process and only in timelessness can we see this. This is where the heart lives. All we have is what we need. And all we need is what we have.
The arts remind us of this as many times as we let our gifts be given and received.
Through sharing art, the marriage of object and source of our longing, is consummated. Let us witness each other in our collective soul creation. Letting hearts speak and be witnessed with words and worlds that are yet to be created.
