This task is in two parts:

Part one is brief and simple. I have a 'public art patch' on my door where anyone who would like to may create some art that will be viewed by all who walk past- art by the public, for the public.



Part 2:

I wanted to do something that was a little deeper. I thought about the practice rooms at the conservatory of music, and I figured that'd be a great chance for me to allow the public (those practicing) to create art. My initial thought was to leave sound recorders lying around.

But then I figured, why not make people leave their comfort zone a little, and do something other than what they're used to? Why not encourage them to make something other than music? So I did.

The results were varied- a lot of the sheets were simply lost or taken, some had a few random scribbles, and there were a couple of real gems.

One gem is this story, which someone took the time to write out of their everyday routine.




The Checkerboard

The town had a life to it, as all do, as the spirit of the people seemed to converge in the places they traveled.

They walked the streets, passing a window from which came jolly laughter and the banter of conversation. Through that window sat two old men, facing one another. Their chairs creaked with their movement, and the backs and seats were worn from frequent use. Between them sat a barrel, the perfect height to use the checkerboard that rested upon it. The laughter and care free talk between them brought many a glance through the window. Even as the day grew late the pair continued to play, their happiness never ending.

The town had a life to it, as all do, as the spirit of the people seemed to converge in the places they traveled. The people walked the streets, sensing something different. Their pace quickened, disturbed by something they could not place.

One man sat at the checkerboard, his posture slumped and his eyes downcast. The usual murmur of conversation was not there, nor was the laughter that had become part of so many lives. All that broke the painful silence was the quiet rustle of the man's sleeve as it moved to wipe away a softly rolling tear. The sun slanted through the window, falling on the checkerboard. The old man stood from his chair and slowly turned away, looking back at the empty chairs, and the forlorn checkerboard.

As he walked away the life left the completely, and it was understood that the old man was not the only one mourning the loss of his friend.

-MJM


I think that story alone made me feel like I had gotten what I wanted to out of this task. Not quantity, but quality.



All I want is to be great
I play play play play play
Practice takes time, I stay out late
There goes the entire day

Maybe I'll make the LA Phil
Or New York or Chicago too
But all I do is practice still
Then maybe I'll be good enough for you

I think this poem becomes really great when you consider that the 'you' in the final line isn't some orchestra or some job, but some love interest whom the narrator eyes from afar, practicing, hoping one day s/he'll feel good enough to approach.