The Black Nightingale
Under the specter of death, there is life
The long shadow of the corona virus wraps around the globe. Cities everywhere, and of all sizes, are turning into quieter, more vacant versions of themselves.
The people of the world are cocooning themselves. Retreating. Heeding the call of the experts and maintaining their distance from each other.
But we are a herd animal. We live in family groups. In packs. We need contact in order to thrive.
Under these circumstances, I am not the first to mention that humans are clinging to the arts. Music, theater, television, art... The accessibility of the internet is at its best right now. Allowing those with the means to stay connected through disconnection.
But it feels like more than that, to me. We could be connecting just to talk to each other, but the anecdotal amount of artists sharing free concerts and peeks into their studios and live living room plays feels overwhelming in its beautiful abundance. The options are many.
As the infection count rises, as horror stories emerge from hospitals, and as the average person realizes how little is in their control; humanity feels the specter of death knocking on the door.
And when death calls, life always comes after.
And that is what this influx of art feels like.
It is not just music, art, video, etc...it is the CREATION of that art that is carrying us through. The knowledge that there are people who look into the void and see a light that looks like a song, or a story, or a dance... and they share that with the rest of us.
Creating art is the ultimate reaffirmation of life. And that is why we all gravitate towards it in our darkest hours.
So when we come through the other side, we must remember that it was this creation that carried us. We must remember to value this feeling of being held up by creativity when we couldn’t hold ourselves.