[November, 2019]

Dear Friend,

I’m Vi, and I’m an artist.
You’ll be apt to find me either splashing around with watercolors,
or scribbling away in my diary.
Indeed, that paints a quiet, quaint picture of a life.
Indeed, in many respects, I am a quiet, quaint existence.
With one notable exception—
it’s a small part of me,
but it’s the most forceful part of me,
and it has taken all the best that I have to offer to lay before Art’s feet.
If only I were that part more timid, I would have settled on a different life.
Because a life given to Art means many sleepless nights:
nights with your heart-window flung wide open for storms to rage through;
nights spent wrapping yourself in sharp questions to bleed out ugly truths;
nights as deep as they are dark that you plummet right into,
with your eyes locked towards an unseen star whose light has not yet reached earth.
Nights that eventually break into day.
On those days, I go traveling
to the world without,
or crossing borders to the world within.
And I say to myself, “what a beautiful life.”
And Art says to me, “warm yourself in that beauty when it comes.
The kind of beauty that finds majesty in the frail, and frailty in the majestic.
The kind of beauty that ages elegantly into meaning.
And when that beauty leaves,
let the remembrance of that beauty enlarge your compassion,
drum your courage,
and uplift your imagination.”
So I paint. Then I write. Oh how I try.
Endeavoring, always, to become more literate in the language of beauty,
one painting at a time.

Too earnestly yours,
Vi