What art can we make from despair, anonymity, failure, poverty, disease, deterioration, subjugation, folly, rejection? What if our feelings are of regret, bitterness, confusion, envy, fear, cowardice? Where is the quixotic pixie dust, the creative alchemy that can transform this mess into art?
Is it immoral to find beauty in these bleak woods? In invasive vines destroying ponderosa pines, slowly strangling them from the light, winding up and spreading out to take the sun, using years of tall majestic forest stands for selfish, greedy growth? Am I wrong? Am I wrong to love the grays and browns of spring without the glamorous celebrity floral flourish and bloom? Should I turn away from the icky twigs and twines of drying grass and seek more heroic views and spacious skies? I cannot do it. Beauty speaks straight on its own, immorally insistent on itself, its power, its freedom, its strength, its right – to be there wherever and whenever it so pleases.