The Fulfillment– At West End Gallery
As for me I am neither happy nor unhappy; I lie suspended like a hair or a feather in the cloudy mixtures of memory. I spoke of the uselessness of art but added nothing truthful about its consolations. The solace of such work as I do with brain and heart lies in this — that only there, in the silences of the painter or the writer can reality be reordered, reworked and made to show its significant side. Our common actions in reality are simply the sackcloth covering which hides the cloth-of-gold — the meaning of the pattern. For us artists there waits the joyous compromise through art with all that wounded or defeated us in daily life; in this way, not to evade destiny, as the ordinary people try to do, but to fulfil it in its true potential — the imagination.
–Lawrence Durrell, Justine, The Alexandria Quartet
Without sharing it, the other day I wrote about this passage from author Lawrence Durrell which had set me off thinking about the power of the imagination. Or, at least, the purpose of the imagination.
People have been attempting to define the meaning and purpose of art forever. This passage, for me, is as close to my own inner understanding of the meaning and purpose of art as I have ever come across. It speaks of the silences required in order to rework the reality of this world in order to make visible the underlying patterns that move us. I can certainly agree with that.
But the part that captivated me most was its assertion that art is not a distraction or diversion from life. We don’t turn to art to get away from life.
No, we turn to art in order to confront life.
Art allows us to heal our wounds, understand our defeats and hopefully achieve catharsis, which Durrell describes as a joyous compromise. Most of us react most intensely to work that speaks to own wounds and defeats. In it, we recognize the underlying pattern and, by doing so, can understand the source of our pain then deal with it.
Okay. That’s enough. I have work yelling at me to get to it. Besides, I could go on and on about this and probably say less than I have already said. Writing is often, like painting, about leaving space for the viewer to insert their own meaning and experience.
That space, that silence, is where it becomes art.
Redtree Times 
This is one of my favorite passages from Justine, and one that I’ve sometimes referred to myself. The re-ordering and re-working of reality lies at the heart of any art; its absence is what makes so much writing seem like mere reportage, and so many paintings seem pedestrian.
Pedestrian is such a great word, one that I often overlook in trying to describe exactly what you mention. Thanks, Linda!