Here we are. Suicide attacks. It is like something out of an 1980's dystopian movie. Art, I was told and taught, is medicine for society. But not everyone enjoys or tolerates the same art. Some find things bland, and some find other things revolting. Then there's the artist, just trying to do their job, their vocation, their calling. Sometimes it's grunt work, sometimes it's inspired. It's never everything tho-well, perhaps seldom times it is.
I listened to something today. Something wonderful, made by someone I know:
As a trumpeter, I see the craft, I feel the technique, I understand what it takes to do this. How does one measure the art, however? Is it really a composite score of all the effort and material elements combined?
Furthermore, how does this heal our world today? Can the beauty of this performance inspire some person to compassion, truly? I do know that I've been healed a little bit.