Music Mosaic

The music that this mosaic portrays can be found here

This piece portrays the illumination that written, musical, and visual words have on us.  They have the power to open new and different perspectives that enlighten and expose ideas to enrich our lives. We’ve all heard the phrase a picture is worth a thousand words.  Indeed, if one were to contemplate how to describe one picture—in sufficient enough detail—so that not even the slightest pixel is left un-illustrated, one-thousand words may not seem sufficient.  One would have an equally trying time describing the melody, harmony, and rhythm of a classic musical piece.  The same is true about novels.  How do you describe the effect that classic artist’s ideas have had, effects that turned their pieces works to be vetted as essential for all generations to consider?  I cannot tell you.  But I can help.

Part of the trial lies in the difference in perception of the artist and the viewer.  The artist may paint a sliver of light—the last light the crew sees—as the harsh Arctic Ocean’s icy fangs devours their vessel, hoping to show the frailty of man against nature; but the viewer, whose experience of the arctic is harmonious, sees the one ray of sunlight in the painting as hope, that the long, dark winter has finally given way to spring.  So, to describe an art piece, you need to know what you see, but also what they see.

In this piece, a book is found.  A hand reaches out to touch the book.  There are things surrounding the book, why not touch them?  Because they are seen.  Nothing is hidden.  But the book, we don’t know what is inside it.  The book is opened and the journey begins.  That’s how it always starts; every journey begins when something is opened.  The book cannot be closed, the journey must continue.

The shadows around the book reflect the ominous mountain shrouded by clouds.  The greys and blues and tans connect the viewer with the book, the page, the mountain.  The plants, whether stitched in the cloth or growing on the mountain makes no difference—they are both frozen.  The pages blur like the flurries of snow in the canyon.  The yellowing pages give us the color of our main subject: a dog.  Just as the dog searches for what we cannot see, the viewer reads for what he cannot yet know.  The anticipation of discovery keeps both going.

As both continue the journey, it gets more intimate and the light begins to grow.  First a stark line between what is seen and what is shadow, but the line fades and grows—making the border unclear, just like the snow blankets everything into a white mass.  The end is reached, the room is dark no more.  Though the dog has found his master—the reader as well—we ask ourselves: who is the master?  I cannot tell you.  And I cannot help, yet.