In a world where people have formed their ways over the centuries, the world has become a very different place. Wars and the powers of many nations have shaped the modern world, and yet, we still can appreciate the simple art of something made with our hands, painted, woven, crafted from wood or stone or metal, a tool, or an implement or an instrument . It says, I made it. Look, it is something different, it has a purpose, or a beauty, that is relevant on a personal level. In fact, if we look at the common thread of human civilization, from the earliest history we have, it is the shaping of tools, decorative ornaments, and paintings and writings, or story-telling. They all tell a story, about them, and reveal things about us, and to us.
Today, we engage with our society and current world, by working a job, doing something that earns a living, that hopefully gives us some satisfaction and does some good for ourselves and others. But it doesn’t usually tell the whole story about who we are. Neither does simply the making of an object, or playing of an instrument or painting a picture, tell the whole story, but in the process of making something with our hands, we connect with our past generations, and engage in the present moment, where each line, and movement, and thought, make a difference. Losing that ability to express ourselves we grow restless, engage in the ideas and events of others, and allow our stories to be defined by something or someone else.
In a great city, there is a great deal of creative force, but the busses and streetcars and commuter cars are also filled with a lifeless spirit that just can’t wait until Friday. The weekend, when they can live in their own time and share their own story.
Here is a tribute to brave souls that can do what they need to do, and share of themselves by finding the means to artfully, and peaceably engage in some creative way, even during the busy workweek.