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ovenbird
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that he was mad. His work was ignored and mocked during his lifetime. Those who say they can talk to angels are generally canonized or institutionalized, depending on the whims of prevailing powers. Blake was just ostracized, left alone with his visions while poetry and art spilled from him relentlessly. His genius wasn’t appreciated until well after his death. The 19th century scholar William Rosetti called Blake a “glorious luminary,” and this strikes me as such a beautiful way to recognize Blake’s expansive sensibilities. He truly believed that his work was divinely inspired, and who are we to argue? It’s hard to know where the source of artistic inspiration originates. I have often, in my most receptive moments, felt like a conduit for words and images that arise from some source outside myself. The Magician in the Tarot illustrates this as well. He holds a wand above his head while his other hand points towards the ground. He makes himself a lightning rod so that the universe can pass through him and be transformed into concrete representations of the numinous.
Blake wasn’t concerned about his lack of fame. He worked diligently on his poetry and printmaking because he could no more staunch the flow of art than stop the river of his breath. He believed in both a “before life” and an “after life.” The mortal present was simply a waystation between these two points of eternity. He believed his work was better received in these eternal realms and didn’t waste much energy worrying about what anyone in the concrete world thought of him.
God has never spoken to me, at least not in a way I understood. But I keep wanting to write about love, and maybe that amounts to the same thing. If that is madness, I’ll let it in willingly. I am devoted. I am consumed. I am compelled.
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