bill evans | my creed for art in general

"My creed for art in general is that it should enrich the soul; it should teach spirituality by showing a person a portion of himself that he would not discover otherwise. The artist has to find something within himself that's universal and which can be put into terms that are communicable to other people. The magic of it is that art can communicate this to a person without his realizing it. Enrichment, that's the function of music".

Bill Evans, interview with Don DeMicheal (1969) 

rainer maria rilke | no measuring

“In this there is no measuring with time, a year doesn’t matter, and ten years are nothing. Being an artist means: not numbering and counting, but ripening like a tree, which doesn’t force its sap, and stands confidently in the storms of spring, not afraid that afterward summer may not come. It does come. But it comes only to those who are patient, who are there as if eternity lay before them, so unconcernedly silent and vast. I learn it every day of my life, learn it with pain I am grateful for: patience is everything!” 

from Letters to a Young Poet

aug 8 1969 | mal evans diary entry

 

"Doc did a lot of good in his time..."

But let’s be fair. Doc did a lot of good in his time. He thinned out the werewolves in northern California, established a Brontosaurus preserve at the center of the earth and prevented an evil maharajah from hypnotizing the entire world.

Back To The Gore of Yore

Time Magazine, July 5, 1971

rudi krause | finding myself

I find myself looking out my back door

At the mustard plants that have taken over

Seedlings everywhere

I find myself on my hands and knees

Looking for a coin that must have rolled

Under this dresser

I find myself lying beside the road

Aching and bleeding and watching

People pass by on the other side

I find myself looking out over my wheat field

But really seeing only

The weeds

I find myself working in my father's field

Thinking of my younger brother

Having a grand old time in a faraway city

I find myself caught in a thicket of brambles

Afraid to move, afraid to bleat

Straining to hear the shepherd's footsteps

I find myself digging a hole in my backyard

To bury what my money-hungry master wants me to invest

I shall not participate

I find myself panicking as the flame gutters and dies

Realizing that the flask of oil is empty

And all the stores are closed

I find myself eyeing the slop in the trough

While the growling of my stomach

Grows ever louder

I find myself on the broad shoulders of the shepherd

Leaning against his neck, hearing his breath

On our way home