Art Happen
Documenting art and identity in formation: An arts agent's story
Extract from my latest book
Categories: Articles

The Pilgrimage

And so they have all arrived. After days, weeks and months, the people have traveled with the guidance of a river stream. Far and away into the island it leads! ‘We are pilgrims of earth, van Gogh once said,’ recalled one. But the days have become years. The land is filled, yet we are lost. ‘What are we seeking?’ one asked.

The rest mumbled, and some grumbled. ‘This was once the sea point of the Silk Road!’ another exclaimed, ‘and where are the treasures that they could have left behind?’

And they continued to follow the wandering crowd. The men walking in front knew the field to the future was a never-ending journey. It seemed as if it was an infinite grassland. Few had settled along the river to stay, then given up moving, and moving to nowhere.

But one day, when those who walked in spite of it all were moving very slowly after the break of day, they felt a strange presence far in the dawning sky. ‘In the mist, in the mist, in the purple mist!’ one screamed.

‘What is that, that, that even daylight is shadowed by?’ his partner echoed.

‘God, oh, God, God has spoken, or has he?’ a self-proclaimed prophet cried aloud.

And as they moved towards the gigantic figure that they could hardly see, they began to run. All their tiredness had gone away. They could feel a vibration sweeping through them as they came nearer to it. The sun rose as usual, gradually lifting above the far-off petal-like shadow. The clouds began to outline itself with the dawn-cast silhouette. The sky was painted with pure white smoke. The earth’s air became blue. Then did the journey’s structure become clearer, and clearer. Some said at that point they could hear the trumpets with angelic tunes. The vibration at that point felt like the clashing of bass and the frequency of harp’s strings running through from a hundred miles.

When the massive shape reached its full colour, no one could believe what appeared to be a dream reality. The humungous tree leaf turned red and became a pair of unimaginable human lips that floated as if a sleeping lady’s.
And all they heard then – was no spoken words. A voice indeed, despite no way to ascertain it. Answers to lifelong agony it bestowed. Music from the deepest and some apparently non- existent chords. All but they found an answer. They all wanted to be freed.

To learn more about this book, visit: http://omot.artx.co/

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