A poem by my good friend, Robert Seufert, which sums up my feelings about artistic freedom.
There are many ways to tell the truth,
And many truths to tell.
Two thousand years ago,
Artists felt the heel of religion
Thrust firmly on their necks.
But a century or two ago
They learned to breathe again.
The air was sweet but dangerous,
The mountain passes cold and thin.
Most sought to find a heel again
Another heel, within.
But some—a few— breathed free.
Their bodies became whole and sound,
And their eyes grew clear at last.
They breathed the wild sweet air again.
And some rose from the ground again,
And some few turned around again
And walked a different way.
Another heel descends today.
It sports another boot.
It seeks to rest upon the neck
Of artists with its foot.
Its leaders are political
But wear the air of saints.
They seek to make us good and just,
Which I applaud with all my heart.
They’d build a better world at last.
I’m proud to do my part.
But I‘m feeling the weight of a boot on my neck.
And I find it hard to breathe.
And I find I just can’t breathe.
Sometimes the price of a noble goal
Is a loss too great to bear.
The thought-police are still police,
And a boot a boot, however fair.
So me, I’ll take the artist’s way, with all its boundless air,
For the breath of life roars through my lungs,
And it takes me God knows where.
--Robert Seufert, 2020