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Transmigration of a Genius

The Memoir of an Idea

By Kelsey AebiPublished 3 years ago 8 min read
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The Artist died without friends or family to bid him farewell as he passed into the other place, but it was not a sad affair. He was not alone, because until the very moment of his death, he had me. I had been with him since the very beginning, since his first notebook was filled with the fruit of our labour together. He was not the first artist I had known, but he was the one I loved best. I at least was there to hold him close as he was unbound from his mortal coil. You see, I am familiar with boundaries of all kinds, of crossings between here and there. I am an idea, a genius.

Most people are not aware of my presence, at least not anymore. The ancients used to herald my arrival with song and dance, looking for the inspiration that only I can offer. But the Artist was different than others of his time. He was familiar with the curves and lines of my being, of what I could bring to his page. He was glad to have me, thankful even, and for that I gave him inspiration so rich it could sustain him for his whole life. There was trust between us. Perhaps it was because of our connection that he went so readily into the last dark night. He was not afraid of in-between places. I had brought him there, to the brink of life and death, so many times, and each time he captured my essence with his pen and his small black notebook.

When he died, I knew that I would have to find a new companion, someone who would be up to the task of hearing my vision and bringing it to life. For in death he was no longer the Artist, but simply a man who had lived well and was now making a new kind of pilgrimage. I needed someone who could see me. The only other person who had known of the artist’s death, was his lawyer. The artist had tried to make provision for me, but how can you account for the needs of an idea? There was no time to mourn the death of the artist, because the task of finding a new companion was urgent. My essence could only last a short time before I would dissipate into the unconscious, the void. Whatever kind of life I had, I wished to preserve it.

One might think that a city is the best place for an unaccompanied idea to search for an artist. There are certainly many individuals to choose from and with such a stunning variety of life experience. However, the problem with a city is that an idea needs a quiet moment to enter. Boredom, yes boredom, is the best time to make an entrance. If you don’t believe me, then just think about the last time you were visited by an idea. The most ambitious among us will take even the smallest window of opportunity to make themselves known, even appearing with no notice in the shower.

My preference, of course, has always been to be invited. That is the real problem with the city. There is no quiet moment in which to enter, either into a friendship or a contract. The Artist can walk down the street and have a mind filled with many things but a mind filled with so much has no room for me. Emptiness is necessary, at least at first. Some ideas are much noisier and flashier than myself. They have done well in cities. But an idea is not adaptable like a human being. I cannot change myself to suit my environment.

The Studio was situated on a neighborhood street in a suburb of the city. A river passed through it, dividing it from the noise on the other side. It was a large house with open windows, providing plenty of room for me to float inside. Surely there would be someone in need of inspiration. Inside I found a Metalworker and a Weaver, two likely candidates for my visit. How would my vision take shape under their hand? Would they be sensitive to the contours of my presence?

First I made myself known to the Metalworker. Her gaze was focused on the seam she was welding, but her mind was open. I could feel her awareness quicken when I announced myself and I waited for her focus to shift. She was not new to inspiration. There was an ease about her that I liked, an uncomplicated joy. Hers would be a friendship more than a contract, that I could already tell. But there is a waiting period for the transplant of an idea. Sometimes an idea can take hold within a few seconds and other times it can take a lifetime of waiting, of tinkering and adjusting until the soil of the mind is ready for the idea to take root. Then there is the matter of rejection. On occasion, an idea is simply incompatible with the mind of a particular person and will be rejected smoothly and without remorse. I held no hard feelings towards the metalworker. Perhaps she was courting another idea or perhaps she was simply waiting for the right one. Once I crossed the border into her mind, the invitation was revoked.

No matter, the Weaver, I was sure, would be a fine choice. Her fabrics were wild and uncompromising. She knit together layers of different materials, discriminating neither between natural nor synthetic as she built her masterpieces. This was an artist who was comfortable with living at the edges of borders. The intricate needlework and complex stitching would give me ample time to introduce myself. Perhaps I could even be incorporated into the work she was doing now. It would be only a hint of what I could do, but the excitement at the prospect of being brought into the world caused me to vibrate with joy. That is the heart of the relationship between an artist and an idea.

Just as the artist can reject an idea, so too can the idea decline the invitation. At times, I have thought that an artist was the perfect person to give birth to my vision, but on occasion I realize I have miscalculated. The Weaver was diligent and hardworking, and most importantly open to inspiration, but still her mind was not the right field for me. Just as I am not the noisiest of ideas, I am not a fleeting burst of inspiration. I am a slow and lingering idea. I wish to stay with an artist for the duration of their life, forging a bond strong enough to bring even the most obscure parts of my being into view. That left me with only one option, to move on. I was sure the Weaver would sense the loss, but she would have plenty of ideas to choose from after I was gone. Still, my essence grew weaker as I failed to connect with a human being. An idea cannot exist long without being expressed.

So it came to be that I ended up in the park. I drifted on the breeze and found myself in front of a child. The girl could be no more than ten years old, but she carried with her an object that reminded me of the old man to whom I had once been tied. It caused my edges to sharpen into focus. She filled the little black notebook with images of a small pond filled with tadpoles. She had pages and pages of drawings, images of the world around her, interpreted through her senses. I could see her future, her growing mind and her rising skill in collecting snippets of thoughts and images from here and there. Hers would be a long and winding story. For many years she would do no more than collect and archive, but if I chose to answer the invitation I could guide her selection. After this long waiting period, an alchemical transformation would occur and she would be ready to shepherd an idea into existence. Was I ready to be transformed? For that is what would surely happen, if I bound myself to this girl. I would give her rich enough inspiration to last her whole life and in return she would transform me into something more than what I am now.

The old man had provided for me after all, though I had no skill to discern it in the past. It came as a surprise to both me and my new Artist. Many things can cloud the mind of an Artist. The old man knew the tricks that could be played upon an idea such as myself, the obstacles that could block another artist from falling in love with me. They are as countless as the stars: Debt, fear of failure, low self-esteem. Money and fear are among the highest ranking offenders. Too much money or not enough money could destroy the chances for an idea to be brought to life. So the old man had one last conversation with his lawyer before he died. I had provided for him over the years and thanks to our combined efforts he had accumulated a modest savings. His last act was to provide for me, by giving artists a chance to free their mind from the obstacle of money. His foundation had exactly one grant to offer, $20,000 for an artist to bring their idea to life. It was enough to ease the process but not so much that the Artist would never face another challenge. In short, he had given me a chance and he had given the girl an opportunity.

When I made my choice I had no idea of the journeys I would take with the Girl, the Artist. I had no sense of the ways in which I would change her and she would change me. I have since come to know that my survival and the Artist’s are coupled. However the most remarkable thing I uncovered in our time together was that I had not been forgotten. I was the link in a long line of artists, past, present, and future. I was real.

art
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About the Creator

Kelsey Aebi

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