[Bordermarch] The Artist and The Critics

Fri Jun 29 10:23:37 PDT 2007

Greetings unto Your Excellency Santiago from your humble servant and fellow artist, 

     It is frequent that artist of our stature are condemned for our work. You must stand fast and not let the hords break your spirit. Remember in the art world there are no mistakes only masterpieces. Forty lashes to the infidels for their bashing of a great artist. Right or wrong you are RIGHT!!! Because you are an artist.

I am your servant always and will stand by you always,
Therese d'Ivoire

"Imagination is everything."
Theresa Liddle-Bernsen
8255 Highway 105
Beaumont, TX 77713
409-896-5206 - home/studio
Support Your Local Potters

----- Original Message ----
From: "Lathrop, Dave" <Dave.Lathrop at valero.com>
To: Barony Bordermarch <bordermarch at lists.ansteorra.org>
Sent: Friday, June 29, 2007 11:14:14 AM
Subject: [Bordermarch] The Artist and The Critics

The Artist and The Critics

There are times when my written verbiage forces the reader to expand
their mind as they journey with me down the twisted path of my
imagination. I struggle to lead them to times and places that may never
have existed. I consider myself to be not unlike a painter using
processed wood pulp as my canvas and black ink as my paint. Every word
is a different brush stroke that combines with others to form a
painting. Sometimes one finds special words that can turn a bland
painting into a masterpiece. Every artist needs to shoulder the burden
of critique that seems to be a constant companion of true inspiration.

One such moment of inspiration came to me as I jotted down some words
for the Autumn Melees Invitations for Their Majesties and our Noble
Cousins. I used the word "swales" which means, a low area of moist land.
This word describes the general area that surrounds the beautiful land
we all know as Bordermarch. My mistake was I assumed everyone knew what
this word meant. When I entered our officers meeting for the month of
June, which was being hosted by Her Most Excellent Tessa of the Gardens
in her domicile, I was viscously attacked by HE Elisabeth and some of
the other hens that were gathered there. I was chastised and made to
feel small in front of my fellow man friends. HE Elisabeth said in so
many words that I had made up the word "swales". She received the nod of
approval from several others present although they did not openly
challenge me. I was stunned. My people were turning on me and I was
alone in the wilderness. I searched the room for the silhouette of the
one who could save me, Sir Simonn of Amber Isle. He is a Master
word-smith who knows the meaning of all things. When I was informed that
he was indisposed at the moment a small cry began to form in the back of
my throat. I looked toward my wife, my sole mate, my accuser, HE
Elisabeth. I made certain no eye contact was made and then pointed a
shaking finger at the Good Tessa and shouted "For the love of God help
me!." Good Tessa is a renowned English teacher known for her unbiased
opinions and vast knowledge. She studied my pleading face and seemed to
have made the decision to help me out of this situation. She tilted her
head and closed her eyes as she searched her vast memory for the word
"swales". I was fast approaching a state of frantic despair when just
then she smiles at me and slowly opened her eyes. She would now
vindicate me and prove to the others that I am nobody's fool. The room
fell silent as she began to speak, "I am quite confidant and can say
with utmost certainty that "swales" is the definition of more than one
whale". What a disaster! 

I laid my trust at the enemy's feet and was stabbed in the back. I
retaliated and challenged her to get the dictionary and look the word
up. She returned with one of the oldest, grungiest Funk and Wiggles
dictionaries I have ever seen. It was very convenient for the
inquisitors when she declared that her mighty dictionary did not list
the word "swales". I was drowning and nobody would throw me a life
preserver. As I searched in vain for my lost dignity I noticed that our
own Lord Malcolm had raised his hand to beg permission to speak. The
ladies studied him long and hard before granting him the privilege of
taking the floor. When Lord Malcolm began to speak all the naysayer's in
the room began to hiss in unison as hairs on the back of their necks
went visibly rigid. It seems Lord Malcolm use to be a manager for a
major golf course in town. He boldly declared that "swales' was indeed a
low area of moist land between the greens on a golf course. I was
immediately absolved of my crime, but HE Elisabeth remained unremitting
in her conviction that "swales" is not and never will be a real word.
She disappeared into the computer room to consult the master-brain
"Google". Upon her return she promptly approached me and apologized
while bending to plant a lovely kiss on my cheek. Although her eyes
still burned with fire she did admit that Mister Google's confirmation
of Lord Malcolm's and my description of the word "swales" would satisfy
her blood-thirst for the moment.

Oh yeh! Oh yeh! It's good to be right. All went well the rest of the
evening until that same dark hoard of flesh eating yard-hens challenged
my use of the word "salutations" in the masterpiece I call "Autumn
Melees Invitations ". 

Artist have a name for the baggage they always struggle with, the
mountain they will never scale, the endless ocean on which they sail
forever, they call all these things "critics".

Santiago

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