What's in a Birthday Gift?
Art.
Artist.
Audience.
Each one's joy is different.
The audience is awed by the work of the artist, and is dumbstruck thinking, "My god, this guy is a genius!"
The artist savours a deep and silent joy - sitting and watching every single element of his handiwork being devoured and relished, and enjoying the unexplainable predicament he puts his audience into. His fan wants to say something, but he can't.
Art makes one speechless.
I had wrapped up the gifts in layers of newspaper and built up the suspense with small notes here and there. It was her birthday.
I had spent two weeks for the Hand-made Birthday card, had personally scouted shops for the most exotic trinklets that would be moulded by my fingers into a unique statuette. I had sat and designed for close to three hours, a beautiful wall hanging for her. I knew that my poem in the top-left corner of the wallhanging would move her to tears.
I gave her the package.
It was a bithday gift.
She was a birthday girl looking at her bithday gift.
The audience looked at the art. The artist looked at her eyes.
The artist can never understand fully the joy in the audience's head.
She looked at me. There were tears in her eyes. She had taken a full ten minutes to unwrap the gifts. She'd savoured each layer, each note. She caressed each curve of the statuette, each dent that my nail had embedded in it. She'd thanked the poem with her fingers, she'd laughed at the 40-page birthday card!
She looked at me.
We gaped at each other. Stupidly.
Wide eyed, drop-jawed, and thanking the million stars above that each belonged to the other!
What's in a bloody birthday gift?
The handiwork sat in between us silently. The very object of awe lay seemingly unattended.
The work of Art.
It of course, couldn't care less.
Artist.
Audience.
Each one's joy is different.
The audience is awed by the work of the artist, and is dumbstruck thinking, "My god, this guy is a genius!"
The artist savours a deep and silent joy - sitting and watching every single element of his handiwork being devoured and relished, and enjoying the unexplainable predicament he puts his audience into. His fan wants to say something, but he can't.
Art makes one speechless.
I had wrapped up the gifts in layers of newspaper and built up the suspense with small notes here and there. It was her birthday.
I had spent two weeks for the Hand-made Birthday card, had personally scouted shops for the most exotic trinklets that would be moulded by my fingers into a unique statuette. I had sat and designed for close to three hours, a beautiful wall hanging for her. I knew that my poem in the top-left corner of the wallhanging would move her to tears.
I gave her the package.
It was a bithday gift.
She was a birthday girl looking at her bithday gift.
The audience looked at the art. The artist looked at her eyes.
The artist can never understand fully the joy in the audience's head.
She looked at me. There were tears in her eyes. She had taken a full ten minutes to unwrap the gifts. She'd savoured each layer, each note. She caressed each curve of the statuette, each dent that my nail had embedded in it. She'd thanked the poem with her fingers, she'd laughed at the 40-page birthday card!
She looked at me.
We gaped at each other. Stupidly.
Wide eyed, drop-jawed, and thanking the million stars above that each belonged to the other!
What's in a bloody birthday gift?
The handiwork sat in between us silently. The very object of awe lay seemingly unattended.
The work of Art.
It of course, couldn't care less.
posted by R S Prasanna | 7:36 PM
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