“A book is not an art,” said the art director.
“Of course it is,” I protested.
She gave a sigh of impatience. “It can’t be juried like a picture so we it can’t let it be entered into the arts festival. It’s not a creative art.”
“Everyone who creates a picture, sculptor, music or a book all start at the same place. It is a divine call to create.” I explained and walked over to the easel displaying an unfinished portrait of girl sitting in the grass playing with a gray-stripped kitten.
“Before a drop of paint was smeared in this canvas, the artist started with an idea that was created from a mental image. The writer goes through the same creative process as the artist. It’s a divine inspiration that compels us to illuminate those thoughts with a brush or a pen.”
I picked up an empty canvas. “The artist starts with a blank canvas just as I start with a blank page. Then the artist sketches out the image just as I create an outline.”
I pointed to the partially painted blue on the girl’s dress. The artist then fills in the details just as the writer goes back and fills in the details. I can give a woman a pair steel-blue eyes and a voice hard with defiance. It’s a picture painted in words. Both use the same process to breathe life into paint or ink. Both are worthy to be called art.”
“You’re right,” said the art director. “But it still won’t be approved for the arts festival.”