We feel the need to communicate with each other about this thing we’re on, this spinning thing we can’t get off. We combine language and imagination and do our best. But our words fall short. They’re just noises in the air and flat ink on a page. And so we paint. We poke clay […] All to communicate…how the world makes us feel? To make others feel the same? To proselytize? To remind others of what we all know, of what we all see, of what we all have felt, and then make them go through it again?
We imitate God’s words, but our noises are insufficient. So we doodle in the margins, children working to capture the Sistine Chapel with finger paints on a paper plate. What else can we do?
(N.D. Wilson, Notes from the Tilt-a-whirl)
What else can I do? This is why I write, take photographs, absorb impressionist painting… I want to take part in the beauty, sink into it–to remember the indigo of iris petals, shot through with gold, ruffled at the edges. There is art around me, and I find artistic mediums the best way to highlight, to savor it.