What Art Means to Me

                

Artist Lynn-Marie

Art Keeps Me Sane

by Lynn Marie Ramjass

August 28, 2021

Have you ever read a book that compelled you to keep turning the pages to the next chapter until you finished the book? Or read a poem even a single stanza; or a love letter that was so well written; it touched you so profoundly, the words so powerful your heart constricts and expands? 

In reading such words, it is as though fingers reached within you and literally massaged your heart? 

The effect sometimes like a wistful kiss on your forehead, or a passionate full kiss on your lips? Words often have a power to leave you breathless and an indelible print on your mind. Some words are so deeply moving, you wept. Some words remain seared upon your heart and memory. They are words you will never forget. Words have the power to lift, to heal, to wound, and to destroy. Some words will scorch our souls and leave the marrow of our bones dry.

Have you ever listened to music, a symphony, perhaps an opera, or a song, where you did not understand the lyrics, but its haunting refrain, the melodious echoes reverberated in your brain? The emotion, the timbre in the voice, where you felt the artist depth of pain? Their sorrow and heartbreak somehow mirrored your own? Where it plummeted you into the deepest, darkest, despair? Or had other songs power lifted, inspired, and carried you to heights of pure ecstatic, unadulterated joy?

Have you ever watched two dancers bodies merge so completely, beautifully, gracefully, as in a ballet; where the dancers seem like feathers floating, flitting, across the stage?

Have you ever visited an art gallery and seen a masterful painting up close and personal? So overcome by the depth, breadth, width, and  magnificance of it, your mouth fell agape, your heart skipped a beat, amazed by the patient,  passionate, talented artist creation? Have you fully examined a sculpture scrupulously every line, every curve, every texture? Can you imagine the blood,  sweat, tears, time, heart, mind, and soul that went into it on the part of the artist?

Have you taken the time to examine the contours of your beloved's face and body? Breathed in the full essence of them and committed the totality of them to memory? Are you creative, artistic, imaginative, bold enough to attempt to capture it in a work of art yourself?  

Have you thoroughly examined the wonderous works of art, the beauty and majesty within your daily life?

Have you ever loved anyone so deeply, so passionately, you lose as Jane Austen wrote all "sense and sensibility?" Every word, thought, and action is on and for the beloved? 

Have you studied, the nape of the neck, the curviture of the spine, the round, fully formed firm breasts and buttocks? Have you experienced such extraordinary beauty and passion, the longing it stirred so deeply within you, it left you breathless  and weak in the knees?

Do you allow yourself to bask in these incredible moments of being-these moments of living, learning, and loving? To see, feel, smell, touch, and taste life with such vigor and intensity? To accept, to share, and to feel such overwhelming gratitude,  for these incredible gifts?

Do you see the beauty all around you? Do you seek and find it in others, and within yourself? Or are you much too busy or far too lazy to look?

Have your senses been so dulled, blinded, muted, by sorrow, pain, bitter disappointment and disillusionment, so focused are you entirely on what you have lost, rather than what you still have, or yet to gain and or  discover?

The arts are wonderous, beautiful, majestic, and often cathartic avenues. They are a means of connecting with others, the world and ourselves. The arts represent both the light and the dark sides of human experience and passion. They always have and they always will.

Lynn Marie Ramjass

2021

WHEN TEMPESTS RAGE WITHOUT WARNING.

The Tempest Poem

The tempest has a restless heart
And a turbulent soul
And never will her fury end
Until she has complete control.

Her savage winds, they rake the earth
Her omnipotent gale, is
Guided by her careful hands, and
Never will she fail.

Even the clouds cry out to her
Like the trees who moan so wearily
'Will you never stop, Tempest?
Will you never cease? '

The tempest, she ignores them
But then turns back in a whirl
With a vengeful conscience
And an angry snarl

'Never, never, never! Never, not until, I have the world within my grasp, and then I'll have it all.'

Then with a roar, a scream, a growl, she turned back upon,
Them and said, 'Not until the whole world is in my hands, and the whole world I only have.'

Sara Dickson 

Excerpt from A Momentary Madness by Lynn Marie Ramjass 

Fall 1976

I found my mother’s room. Uncertain as to what I was going to say when I saw her. Would she feel anger or disappointment, or both, to awaken and find she was still alive? Would she feel guilt for what she'd attempted to do  before I found her? 

I approached her bed slowly and drew back the hospital curtain around her bed. All the anger and bitterness, I previously felt towards her that evening suddenly dissipated.

When I saw her lying there fragile, weak, and asleep. None of that seemed to matter anymore. My feelings were irrelevant.

Though I felt an overwhelming sense of relief and gratitude she hadn’t died, and I wanted so much to understand why she had done what she did. I knew, deep down, now wasn’t the time, or the place.

I stood at her bedside for a few moments and quietly watched her sleep. I observed the steady rise and fall of her chest. A lock of her chestnut brown wavy hair clung to her damp forehead. I softly brushed it away with the side of my hand. Then gently stroked her cheek with my forefinger. Her complexion was far paler than I had ever known. Her skin clammy to my touch. Soon her eyelids fluttered slightly and gradually she opened her dark brown eyes. Her face expressionless. She seemed to stare right past me. It was as though I wasn’t there, or she hadn’t recognized me at first.

I leaned over and gently kissed her brow.

“Water! I need some water” she said in a thick raspy voice. Her lips were dry and cracked.

I retrieved a jug of water and a dixie cup from a nearby table and poured some for her. Then placed my left hand under her back and helped raise her to a semi seated position. I held the small cup to her lips with my right hand.

“Small sips” I told her.

Her left hand trembled violently as she placed it over mine. She drank from the cup eagerly When she’d had enough to drink, I placed the cup back down on the hospital table top, my back was to the door. My mother’s face suddenly darkened. It had become distorted and ugly. Her eyes were angry and cold as ice.

“What do you want?” she growled with such venom in her voice. It sent a shiver down my spine. I realized she was not speaking to me but beyond me.

I turned to see my father as he stood in the doorway across the room. Stark still, save for his habit of rubbing his knuckles on his left hand whenever he was nervous or guilty of something. And rightfully so this evening. I didn’t know if I could ever forgive him for it. His lack of concern for my mother and his children.

“What do you mean what do I want? “What kind of question is that?” he asked sheepishly as he closed the curtain behind him and approached my mother’s bedside. As if to give us some privacy. But I was certain those waiting in the outer room could hear the verbal battle that ensued between them. Even now, their long and dispiriting war with one another continued, and I was caught in the middle, as usual.  

“I came to see that you were okay!” he told my mother.

My mother scoffed and looked away. The disdain, disgust or borderline hatred clear in her eyes. 

 “You certainly took your time didn’t you?” I heard myself snarl.

I didn’t want my mother to know what occurred between me and my siblings, but particularly between me my father in the parking lot, whilst hospital personnel were busy working to keep her alive.

Lynn Marie.

tbc