Today I played hooky from morning writing and went to the refurbished art museum. I needed art, and Thursday is a free day.
Contemplating a work by T.C. Steele brought me to the question of why? Why work so hard and so long to produce a relatively small piece seen by a few who make a point to view it. Or in my case, stumble upon it since I wasn't searching for Steele's work. From the practical side, what function does it serve? It can't be eaten, can't provide shelter, can't provide jobs, can't aid in reproduction. It has no purpose and still the city of FW and many contributors recently spent a large amount to give the work a home with excellent lighting, proper climate control, and opportunities to be seen by a few. Why? And why did Steele (and by extension all the other artists) work so hard at producing art? Then the question got pointed around to me. Why have I been spending the summer writing a novel? I could have received a full adjunct teaching load at IVY Tech and receive the immediate monetary reward. I could have made many repairs to the house, repainted the living room, developed a better garden. I could have built another boat (wait, the boat isn't practical). Instead I opted to add more to the novel in progress. Why? Because the characters in the novel need me. They need me to tell their story and tell it truthfully and bravely. And I need them. I need them as an expression of creativity. Why create? Because we are in the image of God.
