Long before Time, there was a Master Artist who sat cross-legged in the Infinite Void, holding the Vast Darkness between cupped palms. He was content with The Stillness, removed from any need for Arousal of Life.
Then, for no reason whatsoever, as is the wont and whim of ubiquity, the palms of the Master Artist began to itch. They itched with irritation to beget a Supreme Magnum Opus, an inflammation that seeped through the Infinite Void and pricked its way into the Master Artist’s fingers. He began to fidget and play.
Sparks flew from the ends of his digits, escalating in fervor and magnitude until the Vast Darkness was embroidered with the ferocious energy of gaseous plasma, electromagnetic radiation, cosmic rays, and the dust of unleashed inertia. Creative play had erupted out of the Void, ransacked its way across the Great Stillness. All because the Master Artist had ensnared a random idea, caroused with it while in a state of inventive ecstasy.
As with all creatives, especially omnipotent ones, the Master Artist soon fixated on a specific, a relatively indistinct rock, effortless to juggle, amusing to alter. Gas and dust were cemented with immortal saliva while jealous bursts of passionate exertion ignited the rock’s inner sanctum. A push of the Master Artist’s opposable thumbs into the rock’s crust provoked vapors to emerge, form clouds ripe with moisture. Additional manipulation produced water, rain. Abstract art hung in the windows of the Universe.
The concept of Artist as Creator and Creator as Artist permeated the Infinite Void, becoming so crushing in vigor that strands of RNA and DNA draped across the facade of the rock. Life, albeit miniscule and unpretentious, had arisen. The lone single cell soon gave way to bacteria, virus, soft-bodied metazoa. The Master Artist’s imagination pitched into fevered frenzy. Fish, plants, amphibians, reptiles, trees, ferns – all emerged from the ooze of sweat, the mire of rock. And still the frenetic enterprise continued to expand. Mammals, dinosaurs (scratch the latter as these encroached upon substantial negative space and were retracted), birds, insects, flowers, primates – all shotgunned out of the Master Artist’s will and manifested into existence. A penchant for detail soon consumed the work and diversification of what already existed began. The Artist as Manipulator emerged.
But, as is the way with creative genius, artistic depletion promptly surrendered to exhaustion. The Master Artist massaged his swollen knuckles, kicked back from the Infinite Void, now significantly less intimidating, and deeply inhaled most of the oxygen he had so recently fabricated. Unused fragments of work littered the Universe. This disruption in Harmony provoked the Master Artist into further action.
He scooped up loose molecules, dormant gases, leftover dentition, discarded vocal chords, entangled root systems, and buckets of bacteria. The accumulation of forsaken debris continued until a semblance of symmetry emerged. The work gratified his satisfaction.
However, a final challenge provoked the Master Artist: how to proceed with the remnants of the Magum Opus. The artistry of the rock could only assume so much additional diversity before being categorized as tacky. Thus was born the original “aha” moment, the critical crux where the influence of ego reflects the point where Art becomes Artist and Artist becomes Art.
The infinite hand of the Master Artist fabricated empty replicas of himself out of the rock’s detritus, stuffed the interiors with extraneous odds and ends that seemed oddly pertinent. The Fortunate Mistake influenced the arrival of humanity as a key component of the Master Artist’s work. Perhaps this is why humans intuit strong affinity with the rock and its sentient beings. Perhaps this is also why humans are obligated to be fragments of the whole.
Man blinked. “What is the purpose of all this?” he asked politely.
“Everything must have a purpose?” asked God.
“Certainly,” said Man.
“Then I leave it to you to think of one for all this,” said God. And He went away.
(Kurt Vonnegut, CAT’S CRADLE)
Donna Dakota
Between Now & Zen 