I have for long considered the pursuit of knowledge and art as solitary endeavours. Despite the prevalence of institutions that impart education and the necessity of participating in communities therein to further our horizons, I felt there was always a personal element in the instinct to create and understand which was beclouded by the presence of the “Other”. Throughout history the echos of this opinion has resounded in the desolate rooms of many great thinkers united strangely by their mutual hatred for human company. It is not that they disliked people or belittled what they had to offer but within the hallowed sphere of their creation the existence of another seemed, almost, like defilement. Yet, the product of that very creation would fade into obscurity without eyes to behold it. Isn’t the value of art and literature in some measure diminished if it went unobserved? Even more so if it were forgotten? So it seems evident that any artistic creation partly derived its value from those who where willing to remember it. But paradoxically, the act of creating required solitude. A place where an individual stands alone, freed from the stifling claws of observation so that his mind can soar to the very limits of human thought.

The lives of these great philosophers and artists unmistakably bear the insignia of this perennial conflict. It is quite trivial to glean that underneath all of their works there is a persistent attempt to claw their way into a singular moment of isolation where they can speak, not as proponents of a specific context, but as unadulterated individuals. The search for this inner voice is as breathtaking to see as it is hazardous to wield because in its display one is reminded of the gulf that separates him from the world. Undoubtedly the reason art enjoys acclaim is because in it a curious observer is able to see a reflection of some thought or feeling that he had nursed deep within but the artist only grows more and more distant in this process. It was as though to preserve his solitude and yet deprive himself of it, he crystallizes a part of his being so that it can participate in the world at his behest.

However none of these considerations seemed to me important because I had grown accustomed to seeing art for merely what it represents. I was of the opinion that any kind of creation, especially art, transcends its progenitor the moment it is fully created. It always leads a life of its own and sometimes even assumes interpretations its creator might not have intended. To me the beauty of art consisted in this detachment and the question of who was behind it and why sullied its objectivity. But recently my attention has been drawn towards the individuals behind these great works and, more importantly, the instinct which propelled them to create. More than the relation that art shares with truth and meaning, what is its relation to the tormented soul who birthed it? Or perhaps to put it differently, in the face of life’s travails why is it that we find the need to create?

Although I have hitherto framed this question within the context of esteemed thinkers and artists, the thread of creation, at least in some small measure, is woven into all of our lives. All of us are accustomed to occupying a state of duality, being either as individuals who tirelessly strive to create or as witnesses of another’s creation who perpetuate its existence in memory for as long as one lives. Humanity’s entire corpus of knowledge and art fundamentally establishes a continuity of remembrance. By reading the works of a distant philosopher or in witnessing art from a remote era, you participate in the revival of a primordial memory which not only serves as the recollection of what was produced but also of why. Nonetheless, the latter part of this equation still remains more elusive than the former. There is, quite evidently, some desire to escape time in the origins of any creation alongside an attempt to stand against reality. Art achieves its ability to peer through the fabric of what is “real” through the postulation of a lie. An artifice that is partly made to be witnessed and remembered but in its crucible precludes the presence of any other.

These reflections, at least to me, indicated that in the instinct to create one finds humanity’s most primordial endeavour and perhaps also its oldest riddle. It is customary to remark that all great artists are immortal because as long as the vestiges of their work exist, they continue to participate in our lives and at times even serve as luminaries in our darkest hour. Although it is true that most of us do not have the makings of such great men, we still harbour the same instincts. There has always been, for as long as man existed, a bitter struggle to contend with time. In spite of the fact that the artists and thinkers of history championed this struggle through the immortalization of a part of themselves, they were still defeated by the certainty of their own demise. Our imaginative faculties which allows us to look beyond the confines of our immediate present unfortunately also abandons us to live with the knowledge of oblivion. Being creatures that exist within the flow of time and yet aware of a reality outside of it, in what way could we possibly define our selves? We are able to establish cause and effect and through the succession events, construct a “self” which we take to be our own nature but in the reaches of our imagination, the din of eternity still resounds.

Therefore in the life of the artist or any individual who exercises his creative faculties, one not only finds a primitive struggle against the brevity of human existence but also a microcosm that reveals the inner contradictions of human nature. Any attempt to define the individual by resorting to his nationality, creed or religion seems down right fictitious as it only accounts for the “I” ensconced within the flow of time and context. So what do we do with the part of ourselves which appeals to the infinite? Which not only recognizes its existence scattered across time but also within other individuals. In its broadest sense, art represents an attempt to satiate this desire for the infinite in man and therein one finds the beginnings of his higher nature. However, feelings of love and compassion which evince his deeper humanity also reveals that artistic creation does not merely consist in producing an oeuvre. It could comprise of any action which, although seemingly mundane, leaves an imprint of the infinite.

So not only do we find the records of this instinct in the deepest harmonies of music or in literature of the most sublime kind but also in relations of one to the “Other”. The very same relations that a person, in the process of his creative work, comes to despise the most as it deprives him of his inner voice. In this treacherous landscape of time where an individual forever struggles to manifest the eternal against the chatter of the crowd, what do we make of human nature? In its purest form, art becomes a living memory which serves to remind one of the very thing that remembers. In the immersion of its elaborate construct, we are able to behold a fleeting moment of sheer perfection. Its almost as if we find ourselves within a pocket of eternity where time comes to a halt. Where we witness, as I always imagine, not only the secret order of all things but also the manufacturer of that moment in all their stark lucidity. We do our utmost to stay in this narrow embrasure of time interspersed between the seeming monotony of events but it departs immediately like a weary traveller eager to return to her home.

As much as the architect of the embrasure experiences this in all its fullness, he’s also aware that our weary traveller heeds to his beck and call which makes him feel all the more lonely. I have seen our hearts yearn for many things in these moments. As witnesses we attempt to entrench these pockets of eternity deep in our hearts by reliving the experience that begets them. As architects we strive for the mastery of tools to fashion the embrasure, hoping that it not only beckons our traveller but also any others that might even fancy the architecture. We want to witness others in their truth and want to be witnessed in our own. But besides these moments of timelessness that feels as distant as the stars after they have transpired but closer than the air we breath as they occasion, what hope do we have?

As I had suggested before most of us are not Dostoevsky or Mozart in our pursuits. We do not have tools as refined as theirs and neither do we sculpt embrasures as beautiful but we all remain artists at heart. Fashioning such timeless moments have never been the prerogative of the arts. In pursuits of knowledge or even in enterprises that are most remote and mechanical, one finds a cascade of embrasures, different perhaps in their structure and form but unified in their purpose. However a significant part of ourselves still belongs to the world of time. Our context, as ephemeral as it is, engenders human differences and despite our best efforts, we can never witness the truth of another without tainting it by our own. The entire of history of the human race, in my opinion, is unified in its yearning for eternity and we wish that she never leaves us. In each moment where an individual catches her glimpse, he tries to imprison her. He fashions the most beautiful sonnets or melodies to sever the tether which bounds her home but all she gives us in return is a memory. In our greed, we have our eyes set on the traveller and fooled by her weariness we do our utmost to make her stay, hoping that she makes us forget ourselves in all our wretchedness. But I think we often fail to see that in the memories that she gives lies a path to her origin. Only then do we realize that it was not weariness that consumed her but a desire to prevent our unbecoming which lead the way to her home.