On my little music player full of digital memories of sound I have some recordings of a poet-writer friend of mine reading his prose accompanied by computer synth music. I have listened to these recordings many times before and counting, but never before with the intimacy afforded by headphones until today. Perhaps the closeness to the voice brought me to a new understanding that previously eluded me. It was just me and his voice, as though he was speaking directly to me, as though his voice and my thoughts were the same.
I sit on the train digesting his words over and over and over again in my head. The train reaches Osaka Station. The doors open and flesh begins to flood in and out through the doors. It is a transfusion of sorts. I am now walking through throngs of people. Words of love, for that is what they are, continue to pour through my headphones into my brain. I hear each word as an image unto itself. I know now that art is simply an expression of love or the desire for it.
No matter the facade an artist tries to hide behind it’s only when the artist ceases their posing, admitting to themselves that they too are lovely, that they too crave to be someone whom another loves just because, can they create something truly free from themselves. All other work is a mask that the artist wears to flee from the reality that they are. Yet, like these words that now reverberate in my mind perhaps the artist is unable to fully conceal themselves. A bit of them always escapes into the critical eyes and ears of others. Left open and alone to misinterpretations. Perhaps just as my ears have with these words.