A few days ago, I saw an old man carving a piece of wood on the subway. Chunks of wood were flying everywhere. People were staring. There was a circumference of sawdust surrounding him. Yet there he sat, passionately carving a round, dare I say curvaceous piece of wood.
He was so into it that nothing else mattered to him, not the chunks of wood on the floor, not the curious stares, not me sitting next to him. This is what an artist is to me. Completely indulged in the throes of their latest work. Hedonists. Shameless. Passionate.
And the fact that he was doing it on the subway was almost voyeuristic. I was glad to see someone else who just didn't give a fuck on the subway. I've sewn on the subway. Some of the prettiest scarves I've made have been done on MTA public transportation.
To some people it's a freaking piece of wood, and a messy one at that. But any artist who has performed in taboo places has probably experienced the feeling of baring your soul to the masses. And with that I leave you rogues, traveling artists, and nomads.
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