Djelloul Marbrook

The tragedy of an artist’s life isn’t poverty, betrayal, obscurity; it’s that he can’t hear what he heard or see what he saw. His vision escapes him. He writes a perfect line. Then he pauses, wondering if he can write another. Finally a perfect stanza appears. But then what he heard slips away, gets lost in words that are not quite right. They work, but they don’t sing. They don’t fly. And as for the thought, it loses itself in a labyrinth.

The painter conveys his vision from the sketch to his canvas. He even improves on it. He’s ecstatic. To the canvas he brings color, and he sees that the color is right. He understands this vision needs a certain brush stroke, and it comes to him. But somewhere between this auspicious beginning and the finish the painting fails. Perhaps the artist didn’t know when to stop, a common failing. Perhaps the sectors failed to make a whole. Critics may hail this work. It may sell well. But the artists know his vision eluded him.

No amount of success can spare the artist this tragedy. It is the purest thing in his life. Nothing adulterates it.

Other failures fall short of tragedy. Chief among these is the artist’s decision to succeed rather than doing his best, fearing his best might not be commercial enough. He knows he’ll never know, because he didn’t do his best. It has coarsened him. Something is lost, but it’s not as great as the loss of the artist who set out to do his best.

We are all profoundly indebted to the artist who aims as high as he can, commerce be damned. No vision really fails, but some carry the race of man farther than others.

—DM