He said art was a complete waste of fucking time.
She said it was the juice of life.
He said art was for wankers.
She said it was the only way to truly experience the divine; the only medium through which we could truly understand our world and express ourselves fully. Art was the best way to inspire people to change and grow.
BULLSHIT!, he said. I hate to say it, but what about religion? What about nature? What about drugs? What about love? What about sex? He said he’d rather contemplate the meaning of an orgasm than the meaning of art.
She said there wasn’t much difference. That the power of art and the power of orgasm were one and the same – they were both the closest we ever got to God. No religious dogma to bog us down or go to war over, just ecstasy and enlightenment, pure and simple.
For a fleeting moment, she said, during orgasm, or when we’re deep in the flow of an artistic pursuit, completely consumed by divine inspiration, we were timeless beings of light, at one with ourselves in the infinite Now. Pure human lolly gobble bliss bombs.
Bull-fucken-SHIT!!! he said again. You probably think men are from Mars and women are from Venus too.
They are, she said. Haven’t you read the book?
Actually, my sweet little lolly gobble bliss bomb, men are from Earth, women are from Earth…DEAL WITH IT! Have you read that book?
She laughed. So what was the closest he’d ever gotten to God?
Surfing, he said. But orgasm came a close second. Don’t take it personally.
Surfing? Surfing is a complete waste of fucking time.
Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, he said.
She said artists and scholars throughout history would testify that art was God’s work, and anyway, art was invented way before surfing. There was simply no competition.
But she did agree that orgasm came a close second to her favourite pastime.
At least they agreed on something.
He said the most indisputable way to know if you’d had a genuine experience of God was not whether you’d caught an awesome wave or painted a beautiful picture or written an amazing song. The best way to judge it, he said, was by whether it had left its mark on you.
He was deeper than she thought.
Surfing has scarred me for life, he said. Lying naked on the white sheets in the warm glow of late morning, he shared with her the stories of his scars, all proudly won in his dances with the waves.
She said art had scarred her just as badly and beautifully. But her scars ran deeper than her skin. She told him how art had etched itself into her soul, of how the pursuit of artistic perfection, the search for a true expression of herself, and her world, had left holes in her that she could never keep filled for any length of time.
He thought he could do a pretty good job of filling her holes for her – but he quickly decided against saying it out loud.
Instead he asked her, “Should the meaning of art be to lead a life of frustration, always waiting for a masterpiece to strike you like lightning?”
No, she said. The meaning of art was the same as the meaning of life: to learn, express, create, grow, have fun, serve, to be inspired and to inspire. To bring beauty into the world that would otherwise not have existed. And yes, sometimes that journey was frustrating. She dreamt of the day when her scars would heal and her holes would stay filled. Then she could die in peace.
A wise man once said, ‘don’t die with your music still in you’, she said. I’m worried I will.
My music is a continuous symphony of tides and swells, he said, the moon a celestial conductor. I simply ride the notes, baby. There’s nothing to cling to.
Her eyes grew distant as she imagined how she would paint that image.
He studied her face – she radiated beauty when she was deep in thought.
Your scars sound pretty serious, he said. Let me help you fix them. Should I pose for you so you can draw my fine, God-like masculine form in all its naked glory?
Hmmm, not a bad idea actually. I’ll take you up on that offer one day, but not today. It’s kind of an intimate thing to do and we haven’t known each other that long.
Your loss, he said. You know, no matter how badly you’ve been done over by your self-imposed artistic ambitions, or how many times my skin has been cut, love has hurt me far, far worse than that.
Love, or the people you choose to love?, she asked.
What’s the difference?, he asked. A broken heart is fucked up regardless of the semantics. I’ve had enough of that shit for one lifetime.
Me too, she said. But if love wasn’t so elusive, so vicious, so delicious, so maddening, so heartbreaking, so goddamn divine…life wouldn’t be worth living. And there certainly wouldn’t be any art if we didn’t dare to love.
She said she had no choice but to follow when love beckoned, with the enduring risk that pain would be part of the joy.
I’m scared, he said. I don’t like pain. It hurts.
She smiled and brushed her paint-stained hands over his tanned surfer’s body: his marks, his muscles, his flesh. Let me help you heal your pain, she said. I promise I won’t leave any scars.
Let me help you fill your holes! he said.
She laughed.
He was relieved.
Let’s get reacquainted with God, she said.
It’s a good thing we’re not religious, he said. Our church would be the most sordid in history.
And together they experienced, for the third time that morning, the second best thing to art and surfing.