Fragments of Magic: The Power of Art

if art is anything, it is nothing short of magic -- the way it manifests itself in plenteous forms. the way it crawls around your heart like ivy on the wall, as it tugs on the strings of your heart.

if art is anything, it is nothing short of magic. the way it can slip into your soul, gently redirecting you to yourself.

i find myself constantly returning to art -- constantly searching it out in the quiet moments of solace, in the quiet moments of dread. i find myself sitting in my car recklessly trying to find a book of poetry -- or to find an ink pen to hang the prodding words on lines of paper. in the moments i cannot sit with myself alone, my hands are dancing over the black and white, the b flat major, winding itself around the chambers of my heart. i return to art in the pits of the night, in the paralyzing silence and loneliness, making friends with the notes of the night. i find myself returning to art in the emptiness, filling up the vacant space with scrawls of graphite and pen.

i always return to art -- in the depths of heartache, in the pits of destruction, in losing myself, in finding light, in carving out hope --

if art is anything, it is nothing short of magic.

the way it speaks, defying the boundaries of language and limits of space and time. the reality that a pair of hands slaved over the piece -- bending, pushing, carving out the stories in their souls. how enchanting is the ability that art possesses to conjure a feeling, a memory, a millisecond of a moment to the wanderer and curious standing before them.

if art is anything, it is nothing short of magic.

i have stood before the canvases, i have let my ears hang on the captivating words, and i have laid under the piano as it resonates with more than just the walls. i have sat bloodied and broken before art and it extends itself to me in the ashes and simply holds space for me. i have never found such solace and company in anything, than i have in the halls of museums and canvases covered in stories. i have never found more of a home than i have, as i drown in paint bottles, in papers, in the keys, that somehow sink into this skittish soul of mine

if art is anything, it is nothing short of magic.

Photos by Sveta Petty

Written by Sveta Petty