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Art for heart's sake
LIKE the moon they dazzle when most people are asleep. Like him, they pour themselves on the earth and, like him, they are admitted by those with a responsive heart. They are the Rangolians, women who tattoo the arms of mother earth in one endless display of uncultivated obsession.
They rival the moon in the precision of his routine, their spirits dampened only by a cloud-crowded sky. They are our everyday artists, seen but not admired. The consummate artists that they are, they are oblivious to that they are unsung. Daybreak is their inspiration, mother earth their canvas.
Their works, fresh every time, are strokes of lightning that passes through the mother who is exhilarated by her daughters' marvellous gift. They are inspired, they are spontaneous, they are methodical, they are unseeking of rewards – these achievers of endless fulfillment.
They are not complaining of the careless cow, the permanent beneficiary of their munificence. Nor of the transient nature of their soul nourishing art. If relics of their previous day's work are still left, they wash it off with their own dainty hands.
Traces of the most recent work are taken away with a gentle dabbing of cow dung. The struggle for water is a welcome struggle, not an excuse to stop their tribute to mother. The worship is a ritual, not monotonous. It's a unique beginning to the day, with the decorative emptying of the artist's heart.
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