The gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he was much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust which tuned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud, to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared with his friend.

"I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only child), I was spoilt by my parents, who, though good themselves (my father, particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable), allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing; to care for none beyond my own family circle; to think meanly of all the rest of the world; to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I was, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased."

Consistency

     

“Faith is the art of holding on to things your reason has once accepted in spite of your changing moods”

                                                                     - C. S. Lewis 

believe

I conclude this record, declaring that I have written according to the best of my knowledge, by saying that the time passed away with us, and also our  lives passed away like as it were unto us a  dream, we being a  lonesome and a solemn people, wanderers.  -Jacob 7:26

Kelly

 

My November Guest                                                                                   My Sorrow, when she's here with me, Thinks these dark days of autumn rain Are beautiful as days can be; She loves the bare, the withered tree; She walked the sodden pasture lane. Her pleasure will not let me stay. She talks and I am fain to list: She's glad the birds are gone away, She's glad her simple worsted gray Is silver now with clinging mist. The desolate, deserted trees, The faded earth, the heavy sky, The beauties she so truly sees, She thinks I have no eye for these, And vexes me for reason why. Not yesterday I learned to know The love of bare November days Before the coming of the snow, But it were vain to tell her so, And they are better for her praise.     Robert Frost

There could have been a little faith. A little faith in who I am, a little faith in what I can be - will be.


We learn, slowly it seems, what truly matters. Too often we don't see it at the same time. We stand in our own way, don't we? We hold our very selves too close and in so doing we choke others - and our  . . . selves.


There could have been a little courage. God knows, my faults require it - wretch that I am. Wretch that I am. It was written by Hugo the greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved -- loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves.


But we are people, not options. We are not a choice, but the sum of a thousand choices. We are constantly made and unmade and if it is by another - is that not love?

prayer

When the rain is blowing in your face
And the whole world is on your case
I could offer you a warm embrace
To make you feel my love

When the evening shadows and the stars appear
And there is no one there to dry your tears
I could hold you for a million years
To make you feel my love

I know you haven't made your mind up yet
But I would never do you wrong
I've known it from the moment that we met
No doubt in my mind where you belong

I'd go hungry, I'd go black and blue
I'd go crawling down the avenue
There's nothing that I wouldn't do
To make you feel my love

The storms are raging on the rollin' sea
And on the highway of regret
The winds of change are blowing wild and free
You ain't seen nothing like me yet

I could make you happy, make your dreams come true
Nothing that I wouldn't do
Go to the ends of the earth for you
To make you feel my love

She has the kind of voice that tears you apart from the first line and then slowly pulls you back together again, leaving something that wasn't there before - a satisfied longing, yearning and bound. She feels her in a music in place deep inside herself, coupled with her extraordinary voice that makes for a very rare talent. 


Here she takes Dylan's song and adds a depth that it never had before. It is lovely to know that artists like her can gain a place in popular music. 


This song is not, perhaps, the best example (that would be here or here) of her skill, but it is the one I feel right now. 

 Michael and Inessa Garmash

Expression

“You use a glass mirror to see your face; you use works of art to see your soul”

                                                                                   -George Bernard Shaw

create 

Chandler

To influence a person is to give him one's own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else's music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one's nature perfectly--that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one's self. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of religion--these are the two things that govern us.

Andre Kohn

Timshel - Thou Mayest 

Hanks

Intrepidity

“Whatever course you decide upon, there is always someone to tell you that you are wrong. There are always difficulties arising which tempt you to believe that your critics are right. To map out a course of action and follow it to an end requires courage.”

             -Ralph Waldo Emerson

persist

Brando

We read to know we are not alone.

I am yielding folly, I am salted earth, I am partially hewn stone encased by ignorance, I am freedom burning, I am the seed that was sewn,


I am madness of yearning, I am dust and breath, I am he who builds cities, I am pain of wandering, I am Lord of all or nothing, I am tears of damnation,


I am anger and envy, I am both wisdom - foolishness, I am passion unbridled, I am strength untested, I am unkempt beauty, I am fear of the mountains,


I am hope, I am sadness, I am the crawling ant, I am violent dreams, I am love, I am mighty, I am blood and spirit, I am suffering,


I am light that is darkened, I am sight that is blind, I am song of the fallen, I am bone and again bone, I am the book to be written, I am the birth yet unborn,


I am weight at my ankles, I am the arm and the sweat, I am the voice and the vision, I am the path still unknown,


I am thoughts, I am action, I am the choice to be made,


I am holy and broken


I am immortal soul.

Hepburn

Conversation

“The single biggest problem in communication is the illusion that it has taken place.”

-George Bernard Shaw

listen

Frank Sinatra Has a Cold

Still one of the best pieces of journalism ever written. Read it.

THE BOOTH AT THE END

Perspective

“What you see and hear depends a good deal on where you are standing; it also depends on what kind of a person you are.”

                      -C. S. Lewis

think

Disney

This article answers more than one great question. More than you would guess. 

Q: How can I develop a love for great literature? I started reading Moby Dick once, but it was so hard I just gave up.

A: by Wayne C. Booth, Professor of English, University of Chicago The question of how to develop a love for great literature is a little like questions about other forms of love. People don’t ask “How can I develop a love for my girl friend?” or “How can I develop a love for a beautiful car?” We seem to love many things in life spontaneously, and that leads us to expect that if we do not discover a spontaneous love for great art, there is nothing we can do about it. Or we may even come to think that from a sheer sense of duty we can require ourselves to love what other people have told us is lovely and of good report.

But if we look closely at how our “spontaneous” loves develop or die, we see that they only endure and grow if certain conditions are met. First of all, any genuine love requires repeated and deepening experience. Even so-called love-at-first-sight will never endure for long unless one, by repeated and deepening experiences, learns to see more and more qualities in his beloved. And most of our loves—even of people—do not arise at “first sight” but only after prolonged enrichment of our vision and our capacity to see what is there to be loved. The questioner who says “I started Moby Dick once, but it was so hard I just gave up” seems to be placing a demand on the book that would make any loving relationship impossible. It is like saying, “I tried to fall in love with Mary the first day I met her, but she puzzled me so much I just gave up.”

Even more important than the length of time spent is the person’s willingness to put his or her whole soul into the attempt. Love of persons fails to develop or dies when the suitor insists that the beloved provide all of the energy and reward. Love of good literature or music or art is just like that. A book will give its reader only what the reader can re-create for himself. Many books are written to attract the greatest number of the easily caught—they are like men or women who “get themselves up” in the hope of catching even the laziest eye. Similarly, TV shows are usually designed to require no effort and no creative imagination from the viewer. It is thus easy to love television in the sense of wanting to live with it daily; it is easy because so much of television makes no demands upon us whatever; it gives the illusion of giving all we need. Appreciation of good literature—like genuine religious experience, active participation in natural beauty, or building a marriage—requires our willingness to lose ourselves in it, even when the immediate rewards do not seem exciting.

The comparison between loving literature and loving people may be misleading, however, because literature is such a general word, covering so much ground, that in a sense nobody ever could love anything that big. What one loves is particular books and poems and stories. We have no commandment to love all literature. We are commanded to be charitable to all men, but we need not be charitable to all books. Anyone trying to develop a love relationship with literature ought to begin with those works that are closest at hand and that seem most likely to be rewarding. Just as most of us find it easier to say that we love our fellowmen than to be kind to our own children, neighbors, or office mates, so it is tempting to try to “love literature” and yet do no actual reading.

So I would say to anyone who really believes, as I do, that a love of literature is life-enhancing: start reading, today! Make an appointment with yourself to read whatever seems to you most rewarding, for at least one hour each day. The reading might be done aloud with friends orfamily, or by yourself but it should be done at a time of day when you are fully alert, wide awake, able to give yourself totally to your developing love.

In short, every human love is first developed and then sustained by a giving of self that can be described either as work or play. What you do not work at, you cannot fully enjoy. Love of literature is the happy by-product of many happy hours of working with and learning to love particular novels, plays, and poems.

Twain

October

Only one other time has a song's sound and lyrics fit my present mood and circumstance so precisely. 

Garvey

Champagne Curves

She dances like candle light in the darkened chamber of my inner mind, swirling flesh and dusty lace. Barefoot and smiling. Her eyes are dreams I can no longer sing, her lips are music I see in night when the moon is cloaked and shrouded.

She's beautiful and plain. Excessive and simple and she plays within me in like paradox - ever drifting, ever coming.  She brings me to drink but I am insatiable.

I wear years on my skin, sun soaked and profitless. I love bitterness and envy more than happiness. She is love I can only want. I walk without blood - or by blood alone.

But after all the hours, I can feel the movement, I can hear the whisper. I can see the champagne curves.

They're always there.

Her music has yet to hit the shelves, but I am going to call this one. She is going to be big. Something about her music and look says pulp fiction - a femme fatale Nancy Sinatra or Melody Gardot. She seems to be something lifted from the pages of a Raymond Chandler novel and bathed in a gritty glam indie-modern style. If you're into the curve you'll be ahead by listening now. If not - listen anyway.

Peck

        I have  seen wicked men and  fools, a great  many of both; and  I believe they both  get paid  in the end;  but the fools first.

True Words

EAT from Rick Mereki on Vimeo.

MOVE from Rick Mereki on Vimeo.

LEARN from Rick Mereki on Vimeo.

Thanks, Tif. 

cross an ocean

There were days of relentless sun, enveloping heat that would sit on your chest and forehead. Greeting with warm and deep embrace, like a boisterous friend you don't want to see. I would stand in the relief of the breeze overlooking the people, walking, sleeping, yelling, sitting, sweating. The colored buildings stretched in every direction and the animals crawled through the sand like animals. I was king then. I spoke and people listened, they watched my passing movements. I would sit in my filthy den and spark out orders or weave them into delicate tales and they were taken - with love, with callow sincerity. They came to me, spoke to me, crying, laughing, curiously wondering.

But more than this, I knew the kingdom. I could wind through the paths, the streets. The dust and the sounds of the road whispered and shouted to my ears. I would eat like the fat man with coins jingling in my pocket and dirty faces winking in the distance.

I was in love then - not with pulsing breasts and pink lips, not with kind sparkling eyes and soft affection, but with black tar and squawking birds, with thick wet air, hard tough meat, tall gnarled trees and bodies that were as the salt of the earth.

I would grin in the sunlight and weep by the moonlight. My mind would drift like a cloud, across oceans and mountains and through time and then rain large warm drops that slid down my body over and under my clothing, only sometimes getting me wet.

I could wave my fist at the same stars that laid over that place, but everything has changed.There were words then, same as now. Hot and cold, light and heavy, salty and sweet. Thousands and thousands. Some words you remember. I remember a room once and a grey-haired old man staring at me. They said he could see my soul, but he couldn't. Or maybe he could, but it's all the same. He said that man will love the last place and look longingly toward the next one. But he won't be happy with the one he's in, unless he adjusts himself, changes himself. Maybe he knew how to change, maybe not. He lived hard. But he seemed sincere. I think there was love somewhere, behind vague eyes and quick words, but I don't know.

Now I live in a painting. Large and colorful. I am only a small figure, but I hardly look anywhere else. The horizon is taller now, there is less sky and less brown. The air is quieter and less populated - the people look out windows here. House windows, car windows, store windows. I look out windows.

The kings here are different. I know less of them and I am not one of them. Sometimes I stand back and watch like I am wise, but it is softly now. With careful words and furtive glances.

The kings here are different.

Father's Day

"A thought transfixed me: for the first time in my life l saw the truth as it is set into song by so many poets, proclaimed as the final wisdom by so many thinkers. The truth--that love is the ultimate and the highest goal to which man can aspire. Then I grasped the meaning of the greatest secret that human poetry and human thought and belief have to impart: The salvation of man is through love and in love. I understood how a man who has nothing left in this world still may know bliss, be it only for a brief moment, in the contemplation of his beloved. In a position of utter desolation, when man cannot express himself in positive action, when his only achievement may consist in enduring his sufferings in the right way--an honorable way--in such a position man can, through loving contemplation of the image he carries of his beloved, achieve fulfillment. For the first time in my life I was able to understand the meaning of the words, 'The angels are lost in perpetual contemplation of an infinite glory.'"

Expanding and enthralling. From a man who suffered such incredible grief is a story of hope vibrant, hope vivid. It will open your mind and challenge the way you think and person you are.  

A couple of  summer nights I watched Up! again with Melysa. The crisp and magnificence of the blu-ray were outshone only by the heart and triumph of the Pixar classic. I was taken in once more by the fantasy and pull. This time through the film touched so closely and poignantly  to circumstance in my own that I have been reviewing over in my mind since veiwing - as is the way with great stories.


 What follows is the dated critique I wrote that landed me Film Critic for a college paper down south. Luckily my abilities have improved. 




As the release date for Pixar’s newest animated film “Up” approached, I heard an interesting consensus among my friends (not just the critic types) on why they would not miss it “because Pixar always makes good movies.” 

What other studio holds that kind of clout? Disney once did, in the glory days. But with the ever-increasing amount of movies being spat out by Hollywood, few – if any – would ever see a film solely because it was produced by, say, Warner Brothers or New Line Cinema.

And Pixar certainly hasn’t disappointed with their latest picture, holding true to their record of stellar voice casting, top-notch animation , and overall great storytelling.

“Up” starts by shooting us through the life of Carl Fredricksen, especially as it relates to his friendship to, and later marriage with, sweetheart Ellie. From their childhood days until death takes Ellie, they have a full and wonderful relationship (shown in a silent and surprisingly touching montage) although they never accomplish their dream of traveling to Paradise Falls, the South American adventure ground of their childhood hero. 

Now alone, Carl takes comfort in maintaining his old house filled with memories of his deceased wife. The last thing on earth that matters to him, he repeatedly refuses selling his precious home to business tycoons wanting to develop the property. Carl’s life changes when a sudden burst of temper leads the law to order his eviction as a public nuisance. In desperation Carl escapes by tying hundreds of helium-filled balloons to his house and soaring to the skies just moments before his dreaded eviction. Destination? Paradise Falls. But as Carl flies off in Myiazaki-esque form, his perfect plan is “spoiled” by Russell – a young stowaway searching for a way to earn his “Assisting the Elderly” badge in a Boy Scout-like program.

It is refreshing to know that someone is making animated films that are not the colorful hodgepodge of crude humor, pop culture cracks, and rehashed concepts that we've been cursed with in recent years. In fact "Up" has somber and serious moments, but still delivers plenty of laughs, especially when the unlikely duo reach Paradise Falls where they encounter (among other surprises) a pack of talking dogs (the funniest voiced by co-director Bob Peterson) – henchmen of a mysterious master and struggle across strange territory.

The symbolism of the film is sometimes less-than-subtle, but never overbearing or preachy. We see Carl constantly and literally held back and encumbered by his floating house of nostalgia and familiarity, adventure, and even sometimes compassion, are drowned out in his paranoid worry over the floating structure. It becomes apparent that Carl must abandon his home if he wishes to preserve his new found friendships, and even survive, as his surroundings become increasingly hostile.

Though there is a somewhat clichéd fatherless boy/childless man relationship, it does not take away from the story's true message – as important as our memories are we shouldn’t allow souvenirs and reminiscing to stop us from taking hold of the future, perhaps best expressed in the sentence Carl’s wife wrote before her death; "Thanks for the adventure; now go out and have a new one!" It is marvelous to see, what is essentially, a children's film that features an old man as the lead and still captivates its audience. 

“Up” holds attention and pleases children as well as adults. In fact, one of the joys of "Up" is its ability to entertain children while not insulting the intelligence of any viewer. And Pixar remains the only studio that has turned the medium of CG film into entertaining art. As usual the draw is the film itself – not its stars (a trick studios like DreamWorks have yet to discover). Pixar veterans Peterson and Pete Docter add yet another hit on the studio's résumé, and although we are still months away from the end of the year it’s almost certain, yet another, "Best Animated Feature" Oscar will be sitting on Pixar's shelf.

Bogart

en hush

stillness with only the soft noises of her sleeping body. I read from my book ideas on joy and life and God, the pages turning like the thoughts of my mind. Only in gentle passing do I feel the touch of her leg or the brush of her hand as I lie there in the dim. But even as I mull over the words before me I am ever keenly aware of her presence. I've turned out the lights and pulled the bedding from its place and wrapped it around her as she lays on the floor with that angel expression she always wears while sleeping. She stirs and I turn from my book. Pointing the flashlight away I lean close to her whisper of a pain. I brush softly through her hair and slowly stroke her face. I speak quietly. And then her sweet and sleepy reply "I love you too."

“I never killed anybody and I never developed an intense level of hatred for the enemy. Because my war ended before I ever put on a uniform; I was on active duty all my time at school; I killed my enemy there. Only Phineas never was afraid, only Phineas never hated anyone.”

“Looking back now across fifteen years, I could see with great clarity the fear I had lived in, 

which must mean that in the interval I had succeeded in a very important undertaking: I must 

have made my escape from it”

Grant

Two months ago the film industry lost one of its greatest artists, director Sidney Lumet. Passing at the age of 86, his busy career included some of the great films in American cinema history. Call it a commemoration of sorts, today I'd like to call some attention to one of my personal favorites - a true masterpiece - 12 Angry Men 

 12 Angry Men was Lumet's first feature length film and arguably his greatest. No student of cinema skips it. Lumet creates a drama of substance that is both gripping and important. He does this without special effects or indeed anything of visceral beauty. All but two minutes of the film take place in a closed jury room where 12 people sit, stand, pace, yell and talk. And yet Lumet here in his first film displays that great mastery and understanding of film that would stay with him throughout his career.

Much has been written and said about the subtle use of camera angles and blocking in 12 Angry Men, but these would hardly have brought the film to the powerhouse state it enjoys today if it weren't for the deft way it handles weighty social issues with ever becoming preachy propaganda. Prejudice, misunderstanding, social obligation and the US Constitution are effectively covered because they are pulled from true characters and real issues. The plot has no feel of being forced or manipulated because the drama comes from the choices and personalities of the 12 actors. This is something that "cinema preachers" such as Michael Moore or James Cameron seem to have very little understanding of. It is also proof that an audience can relate to performers that do not use Method techniques. There is no need for art forms to replace each other.

These aspects of the movie come from excellent performance and well paced dialogue, but 12 Angry Men is more than a play put to camera. Lumet exhibits a profound understanding of the ability to subtly use the camera to enhance drama and even replace exposition, but the camera never once calls attention to itself. We are allowed to focus intensely on the drama. The lighting and blocking are used in the same way.  This is what makes Lumet's debut a powerful and entertaining even today in a generation fed on high action, sweeping locations, fast-food plots.

This is Great Cinema.


Lumet is also the author of one of the best film making books ever written: Making Movies

I have heard people teach that when creating a work of art one should work in the moment. That the very act of creation is the art and the time in which is created is the consummation of its aesthetic value. For some this does not hold to any corrections - though certainly the correction is in the creation, they both come from the artist.

What follows, though it is not art, is a work of this thought. A creation of a moment, little altered, as pure as impurity begats.

Love when it is held before, when it is created by the object of its affection, is a light in darkness as equally as it is a darkness in light. All feeling is paradox, but perhaps here in LOVE does one find the chiefest paradox. It is an emotion that exists in all human creature. It is a driving force in the complexities of man's base simplicity. To many it is the highest sentiment,the most virtuous achievement and the balm of Earth's sorrow.

The same who think so cannot define the passion they idolize. Love as they know it is a compilation of mentality.

If not love, then what stands at the summit? Which of the divine dregs is the greatest? Surely it not emotion but the object which stirs it. Indeed when it ceases to be the object the emotion becomes corrupted. Projection.

It is seldom asked for in the way it is given and it is not desired and powerfully and the desirer believes. All objects falter - all but one and that one provides the only thing that is greater than love: transformation.

The Eye and Those Who Have it

Objective Aesthetics is a theory I have been partial to for a long time. It isn't my purpose at this time to go into the details of this theory - that will be in another entry. Consider this a the first in a series of examples. For today I am satisfied with saying that good and bad taste exist - at some level - and a person can be more often closer to one than the other.

This manifests itself artistically as well. There are some aspects of art that can be honed and there are some that can be taught, but not all. And there is the eye, the aesthetic sense. That ability to recognize beauty. The gift of style or taste.

This girl, for example, possesses this visceral awareness. It is keenly perceived by her and so naturally it is nearly unknown to herself.


Observe the selection of images HERE. Wash over the individual qualities - each of these was selected by her. This is a clear example of the innate ability. Even the beginnings of an argument for Objective Aesthetics.

In this example the eye is being used in a passive (though certainly not arbitrary) function. That is to say the Subject is making choices and observing rather than creating. Although the Passive Function does not directly create new pieces is just a central to aesthetic movement - again, more on this later.

Most claim art is subjective, those who know otherwise see so much more.

"Some people care too much, I think it's called love."

-Winnie the Pooh

I turned my head and looked for the pink-headed bug. He had tried two corners of the room now and was moving off disconsolately towards a third. I went over and picked him up in my handkerchief and carried him back to the desk.

“Look,” I said. “This room is eighteen floors above ground. And this little bug climbs all the way up here just to make a friend. Me. My luck piece.” I folded the bug carefully into the soft part of the handkerchief and tucked the handkerchief into my pocket. Randall was pie-eyed. His mouth moved, but nothing came out of it.

“I wonder whose lucky piece Marriott was,” I said.

“Not yours, pal.” His voice was acid-cold acid.

“Perhaps not yours either.” My voice was just a voice. I went out of the room and shut the door.

   "Criticism is the forerunner of divorce, the cultivator of rebellion, a catalyst that leads to failure. I am asking that we turn from the negative that so permeates our society and look for the remarkable good among those with whom we associate, that we speak of one another's virtues more than we speak of one another's faults, that optimism replace pessimism, that our faith exceed our fears. When I was a young man and was prone to speak critically, my father would say: 'Cynics do not contribute, skeptics do not create, doubters do not achieve.'"

From my Great Cinema board on Pinterest. 

A Gospel Vision of the Arts

by Spencer W Kimball

In our world, there have risen brilliant stars in drama, music, literature, sculpture, painting, science, and all the graces. For long years I have had a vision of members of the Church greatly increasing their already strong positions of excellence till the eyes of all the world will be upon us.

President John Taylor so prophesied, as he emphasized his words with this directive:

“You mark my words, and write them down and see if they do not come to pass.

“You will see the day that Zion will be far ahead of the outside world in everything pertaining to learning of every kind as we are today in regard to religious matters.

“God expects Zion to become the praise and glory of the whole earth, so that kings hearing of her fame will come and gaze upon her glory. …” (Sermon, September 20, 1857; see The Messenger, July 1953.)

With regard to masters, surely there must be many Wagners (Richard Wagner, 1813–83) in the Church, approaching him or yet to come in the tomorrows—young people with a love of art, talent supreme, and eagerness to create. I hope we may produce men greater than this German composer, Wagner, but less eccentric, more spiritual.

Who of us has not sat spellbound with Aida, Il Trovatore, or other of the masterpieces of Verdi (1813–1900)? Can there never be another Verdi or his superiors? Could we not find and develop a Bach (1685–1750)—to whom music, especially organ and choral music, owes almost as much as a religion does to its founder, say some musicians.

Is there anyone who has not been stirred by the rich melodic voice of Enrico Caruso (1873–1921), Italian-born operatic tenor? Surely there have been few voices which have inspired so many. Considered to be the greatest voice of his century by many, year after year he was the chief attraction at the Metropolitan Opera.

Would someone say that they produce singers best in Italy, in Germany, in Poland, or Sweden? Remember we draw our members from all of these places. The gospel attracts many and stirs their blood with the messages of the ages, and they sing songs of accomplishment, eternal marriage, exaltation.

Then there was Patti—Adeline Maria Patti—who was scintillating in her accomplishments and her greatness. She is known as an Italian Singer though she was born in Madrid (1843–1919). Not only did Patti have a pure clear-toned voice, but she had a wide range which was excelled only by her personal grace and charm, her pure style, her loveliness. Surely we can produce many Pattis in the tomorrows.

We also remember the celebrated Jenny Lind, the Swedish singer (1820–87), with such tone faculty, such musical memory, such supremacy, and with such unprecedented triumphs. Do you think there are no more voices like Jenny Lind’s? Our day, our time, our people, our generation, should produce such, as we catch the total vision of our potential and dream dreams and see visions of the future.

Brigham Young said, “Every accomplishment, every polished grace, every useful attainment in mathematics, music, and in all sciences and art belong to the Saints.”

Many of us can still remember the enchanting Mme. Schumann-Heink, the Bohemian-Austrian, later American lady (1861–1963—died at Hollywood), who was by many regarded as the greatest contralto of her time and a noble character also. She had sons in World War I on both sides, and lost one in the American army and one in the German army.

As I have traveled throughout the Church, many times I have been entranced with sweet and lovely voices. I believe that deep in the throats of these faithful Saints of today and tomorrow are superior qualities which, superbly trained, can equal or surpass these known great singers.

Members of the Church should be peers or superiors to any others in natural ability, extended training, plus the Holy Spirit which should bring them light and truth. With hundreds of “men of God” and their associates so blessed, we have the base for an increasingly efficient and worthy corps of talent.

One great artist was asked which of all his productions was the greatest. His prompt answer was, “The next.”

If we strive for perfection—the best and greatest—and are never satisfied with mediocrity, we can excel. In the field of both composition and performance, why cannot someone write a greater oratorio than Handel’sMessiah? The best has not yet been composed nor produced. They can use the coming of Christ to the Nephites as the material for a greater masterpiece. Our artists tomorrow may write and sing of Christ’s spectacular return to the American earth in power and great glory, and his establishment of the kingdom of God on the earth in our own dispensation. No Handel nor other composer of the past or present or future could ever do justice to this great event. How could one ever portray in words and music the glories of the coming of the Father and the Son and the restoration of the doctrines and the priesthood and the keys unless he were an inspired Latter-day Saint, schooled in the history and doctrines and revelations and with rich musical ability and background and training?

George Bernard Shaw, the Irish dramatist and critic (1856–1950), summed up an approach to life: “Other people,” he said, “see things and say, ‘WHY?’ But I dream things that never were—and I say, ‘WHY NOT?’” We need people who can dream of things that never were, and ask, “WHY NOT?”

Dom Jae gave us this:

“Blessed is the man with new worlds to conquer. For him the future beams with promise. He never attains ultimate success, is never satisfied, is ever on the way to better things. Ahead of him there is always another dream castle glittering in the sun—and what fun it is to build foundations under it!”

Freed largely from expansion and growing pains, we can now pour many firm foundations under our dreams for the future.

And Niccolo Paganini, the Italian violinist (1782–1840)! Why cannot we discover, train, and present many Paganinis and other such great artists? And shall we not present before the musical world a pianist to excel in astonishing power of execution, depth of expression, sublimity of noble feeling, the noted Hungarian pianist and composer, Liszt (1811–1886)? We have already produced some talented artists at the piano, but I have a secret hope to live long enough to hear and see at the piano a greater performer than Paderewski, the Polish statesman, composer, and pianist (1860–1941). Surely all Paderewskis were not born in Poland in the last century; all talented people with such outstanding recreative originality, with such nervous power and such romantic appearance were not concentrated in this one body and two hands! Certainly this noted pianist with his arduous super-brilliant career was not the last of such to be born!

The Italian painter and sculptor Leonardo da Vinci (1452–1519), with his masterful and wonderful technique, made his portraits, figures, and designs true to life. His Mona Lisa is celebrated, and in it he was striving to catch the fleeting manifestations of the secret soul of his attractive and winsome subject. He seems to have given inspiration to Raphael and others of the great.

During one of our visits to Copenhagen, we were excited and inspired as we drank in the beauty of Thorvaldsen’s Christ and the Twelve Apostles.We wondered if anyone, anytime, could produce a greater masterpiece, and yet time may surprise the world. Can you see statues of the Lord, his prophets, and his disciples? There are many martyrs and prophets of the centuries who have never been so honored.

Michelangelo (Buonarroti—1475–1564) thought of himself only as a sculptor. He was called upon by Pope Julius II (in 1505) to build a great monument which the pope desired to have finished within his lifetime. This monument was never completed, and the controversies which arose embittered a large part of the great artist’s life. His 3,500-square-foot painting in the Sistine Chapel is said to be the most important piece of mural painting of the modern world.

To be an artist means hard work and patience and long-suffering. This artist said, “I am a poor man and of little merit, who plods along in the art, which God gave me. … I am more exhausted than ever man was.” And when we see Michelangelo’s masterpieces of art, we feel as did Habakkuk:

“Behold ye among the heathen, and regard, and wonder marvellously: for I will work a work in your days, which ye will not believe, though it be told you.” (Hab. 1:5.)

But then we ask, “Can there never be another Michelangelo?” Ah! Yes! HisDavid in Florence and his Moses in Rome inspire to adulation. Did all such talent run out in that early century? Could not we find an embodied talent like this, but with a soul that was free from immorality and sensuality and intolerance?

Could there be among us embryo poets and novelists like Goethe (Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, 1749–1832)? Have we explored as much as we should? Of the creator of Faust, Emerson said, “The old eternal genius that built the world had confided itself more to this man than to any other.” But Goethe was not the greatest nor the last. There may be many Goethes among us even today, waiting to be discovered. Inspired Saints will write great books and novels and biographies and plays.

Can we not find equal talent to those who gave us A Man for All Seasons, Doctor Zhivago, Ben Hur? This latter book I read when a small boy and many times I have returned to it. Critics might not agree with me, but I feel that it is a great story. My Fair Lady and The Sound of Music and such have pleased their millions, but I believe we can improve on them.

We have the great Rembrandt (1606–1669), whose style is original, founded on the work of no other artist, whose coloring is somber and reaches its highest achievement in combinations of browns and grays. There are few paintings about which so much has been written as Rembrandt’s The Night Watch or his self-portraits. His morals also have been subject to criticism.

And we have the Italian painter Raphael (1483–1520), generally accepted in the European world as the greatest of religious painters.

It has been said that many of the great artists were perverts or moral degenerates. In spite of their immorality they became great and celebrated artists. What could be the result if discovery were made of equal talent in men who were clean and free from the vices, and thus entitled to revelations?

We have scientists who can help harness the limitless powers and turn them to good for all humanity. There have been Pasteur (1822–1895) and Curie (1867–1934) and Albert Einstein (1879–1955), and there are the Harvey Fletchers, the Henry Eyrings, and there will be greater yet.

Then there is Shakespeare (1564–1616). Everybody quotes Shakespeare. This English poet and dramatist was prodigious in his productions. HisHamlet and Othello and King Lear and Macbeth are only preludes to the great mass of his productions. Has anyone else ever been so versatile, so talented, so remarkable in his art? And yet could the world produce only one Shakespeare?

Perhaps growing up in a backwoods forest in Indiana or Louisiana or in Oregon or Illinois, there may be some little deprived boy doing his elementary math on a wood fire shovel and borrowing books from neighbors and splitting rails, who will find his way tomorrow to the knowledge and inspiration which will send him skyrocketing to fame and honors, perhaps even to the White House, and a man to be ever after heralded for his wisdom, bravery, conscience, humanity, leadership, and to be quoted till eternity. His name might be Abraham, his mother’s name might be Nancy, and could this be written concerning him as was written of his nineteenth-century counterpart?

Oh, well, send the women,

Send them there to Nance;

Poor little young un’

Born without a chance.

The little Abes could have their chances and their greatest talents improved and perfected, and their notoriety spring from humble but influential beginnings in the Church.

Oh, how our world needs statesmen! And we ask again with George Bernard Shaw, “Why not?” We have the raw material, we have the facilities, we can excel in training. We have the spiritual climate. We must train statesmen, not demagogues; men of integrity, not weaklings who for a mess of pottage will sell their birthright. We must develop these precious youth to know the art of statesmanship, to know people and conditions, to know situations and problems, but men who will be trained so thoroughly in the arts of their future work and in the basic honesties and integrities and spiritual concepts that there will be no compromise of principle.

For years I have been waiting for someone to do justice in recording in song and story and painting and sculpture the story of the Restoration, the reestablishment of the kingdom of God on earth, the struggles and frustrations; the apostasies and inner revolutions and counter-revolutions of those first decades; of the exodus; of the counter-reactions; of the transitions; of the persecution days; of the miracle man, Joseph Smith, of whom we sing “Oh, what rapture filled his bosom, For he saw the living God” (Hymns, no. 136); and of the giant colonizer and builder, Brigham Young.

We are proud of the artistic heritage that the Church has brought to us from its earliest beginnings, but the full story of Mormonism has never yet been written nor painted nor sculpted nor spoken. It remains for inspired hearts and talented fingers yet to reveal themselves. They must be faithful, inspired, active Church members to give life and feeling and true perspective to a subject so worthy. Such masterpieces should run for months in every movie center, cover every part of the globe in the tongues of the people, written by great artists, purified by the best critics.

Our writers, our motion picture specialists, with the inspiration of heaven, should tomorrow be able to produce a masterpiece which would live forever. Our own talent, obsessed with dynamism from a CAUSE, could put into such a story life and heartbeats and emotions and love and pathos, drama, suffering, fear, courage; and they could put into it the great leader, the mighty modern Moses who led a people farther than from Egypt to Jericho, who knew miracles as great as the stream from the rock at Horeb, manna in the desert, giant grapes, rain when needed, battles won against great odds.

Take a Nicodemus and put Joseph Smith’s spirit in him, and what do you have? Take a da Vinci or a Michelangelo or a Shakespeare and give him a total knowledge of the plan of salvation of God and personal revelation and cleanse him, and then take a look at the statues he will carve and the murals he will paint and the masterpieces he will produce. Take a Handel with his purposeful effort, his superb talent, his earnest desire to properly depict the story, and give him inward vision of the whole true story and revelation, and what a master you have!

The architect Daniel H. Burnham said:

Make no little plans; they have no magic [there] to stir men’s blood

And probably themselves will not be realized.

Make big plans; aim high and hope and work,

Remembering that a noble, logical diagram once recorded will never die,

But long after we are gone,

Will be a living thing,

Asserting itself with ever-growing insistency.

Remember that our sons and grandsons are going to do things

That would stagger us.

Let your watchword be order and your beacon beauty.

We must recognize that excellence and quality are a reflection of how we feel about ourselves and about life and about God. If we don’t care much about these basic things, then such not caring carries over into the work we do, and our work becomes shabby and shoddy.

Real craftsmanship, regardless of the skill involved, reflects real caring, and real caring reflects our attitude about ourselves, about our fellowmen, and about life.