Art as Cruel Mistress
by Frank P Whyte
From whose tragic life does this beauty come,
Wretched agony
Which yet draws art from deep within?
The pain of talent is borne
like abject accolade,
Ever driving, a soul’s cruel mistress,
Or, perhaps, demanding whore
Whose vigil keeps as scavenger
As artist fades beyond control,
And she pilfers the fool of his worth.
Doubt greets him upon awakening,
Naked before his detractors
With wares on display,
And he listens, as mirth
Begins like lonely smile,
So eroded is his confidence
He tremors amidst the jeers,
Knowing as he does within,
That the frivolity confirms his fears.
So he runs far and fast,
As an artiste often will,
Seeking a hidden place of peace
Somewhere beyond the hills,
But he hears the taunting cries behind
Dumfounded as to why they hate his lines,
And he runs until finally his sinews fail,
His sculpture crumbles
And his music wails,
Until he finally is alone,
And with solitary ear to ground
He hears within a gentle tone.
Only then does he lastly come to know
That art is cruel mistress
And it has always been so
by Frank P Whyte
From whose tragic life does this beauty come,
Which yet draws art from deep within?
The pain of talent is borne
like abject accolade,
Ever driving, a soul’s cruel mistress,
Or, perhaps, demanding whore
Whose vigil keeps as scavenger
As artist fades beyond control,
And she pilfers the fool of his worth.
Doubt greets him upon awakening,
Naked before his detractors
With wares on display,
And he listens, as mirth
Begins like lonely smile,
So eroded is his confidence
He tremors amidst the jeers,
Knowing as he does within,
That the frivolity confirms his fears.
So he runs far and fast,
As an artiste often will,
Seeking a hidden place of peace
Somewhere beyond the hills,
But he hears the taunting cries behind
Dumfounded as to why they hate his lines,
And he runs until finally his sinews fail,
His sculpture crumbles
And his music wails,
Until he finally is alone,
And with solitary ear to ground
He hears within a gentle tone.
Only then does he lastly come to know
That art is cruel mistress
And it has always been so
_____________________
My Post-Parsifal season continued:
Lisbon Carmen ended June 24th 2011. The next day I flew home to Berlin. The school year drew to a close, and so does the standard opera season. In the span of January to July 1st I could count the time spent in my own home: 24 days. 12 of them were working in a production in Berlin so "being home" is a gross overstatement (in fact, many of my colleagues will go stay in a hotel when they are singing in their home city).
Days home since September 2010: 38.
My oldest brother Skip once turned down substantial career advancement because it meant he'd be away from home for a hundred days out of the year.
And I couldn't even project being home that much in the coming season.
By July 2011, we Berlin Richards had lived in Europe for 6 years. The transition was not terribly difficult but the time spent away from my own home had become so. Having been brought up in a household of faith, our beliefs were what knit together our lives. Then it was family togetherness. The Phoenix Richards are a large (and now far-flung) family. Sadly, I'd learned to do without being a big part of my Four Brothers lives.
Despite missing hearth, home and happiness I did the only thing I'd ever known how to do -- keep going.
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