A Bottled Instant

Art can exist in a vacuum but artists struggle to breathe in them.

 

Art is temporary, fleeting, at least it is in the moment; inspiration flickers, rears its head, giving no notice nor forewarning. It is the artist who takes such opportunity and captures it for all to see; in that bottle, along with the medium, they capture a fragment of themselves.

 

In that moment, they paint their picture; ink, pixels or words fill the mind. In that moment, in phylactery safe, their soul shard keeps the art alive. When artist pours themselves into such an endeavour, no matter how big or small the piece, it longs for attention, to be seen for it is, after all, only human.

 

Regardless of whether it is seen or not, the art remains. The bottle, once filled, sits on the shelf and gathers dust. Into obscurity, most will fade and in time, the artist dies; their remnant remains, frozen in that instant. As the originator continues, they grow and change, learning every day; most for better, some for worse, only time can say. The bottles they leave, breadcrumbs behind, the stories they can tell; for corpse or remnant left behind, moment from their past is held. To separate the shard from the art is rather hard to do. The two rarely stay that way, intertwined through and through.

 

The art may never be free of the spectre of the artist though eventually time will pass until only one remains. With artist gone, the shard maintains the artists only name. Though historic record will eventually bring the artist back, till such a time, the shard it breathes, free of its vacuum pack.