On art & mystery.

Taken in Maine on 35mm film, August 2020.

I think in art, people want something inside of them to be answered.

Or maybe not even answered, but heard. Understood. Maybe even just seen.

But is there space for an artist or writer who only asks questions, and breaks apart finished puzzles in order to analyze each piece to see why it fits with the next?

I’m sometimes wary of reaching a conclusion—because then the pursuit of truth goes away.

When I write the occasional song, I tend to always end it without returning to the “home” (tonic) chord or note, because I subconsciously want to be left wondering if there’s more…I want to leave the door cracked for possibility.

My thoughts are constantly humming in search of wonder, and longing for mystery within the beautiful. 

And my goodness; I love the mystery, but not once it’s solved.

I feel a sort of disappointment...a sense of, “was that all there was?”

Maybe my mysteries are too small. 

Maybe that’s a reason why I believe in God...why I need to believe.

He’s the only thing I’ll search for eternity and never fully figure out.

He’s the perfectly unreachable depth of beauty and wonder.

Holy.

[from the journal archives]