To be the Art and Not the Artist

I don't wish to be just the name,

A fleeting sign at the end of the poem, that I claim,

The silence before a hearts comprehend pain,
Or a contact long forgotten, in vain,
I do not wish for credits or fame.

If I could, 

I wish to be art;

The hush before the soul understands,
The brushstrokes in rainbows beyond their lines.

A name whispered in galleries,

A signature nestled in the corner, where melodies chime,
Just the feeling that lingers beyond its prime.

If I could,
I yearn to be remembered;

Carved into the frame,

A date beneath the name,

Not a hand to hold the brush, 

A whisper of feeling, frozen in hush. 

Not the poet, but the poem,

Not the painter, but the paint,
The mute ache in those music,
Something seen, something felt,
Something that stays.

In that quiet awe of someone's craft,
A tilt of head lost in time, 
In glances caught when looked away,
Not just a face, not in my name,
But as the ray of light touching that frame,

If I could, for once,

I wish to be ART....

I am a poet, or at least someone who strives to be one. I dip my brush in ink and trace silhouettes in words, not mere letters pressed to paper, but constellations mapping the essence of those I have met. Each verse is a sky where no star truly fades, an attempt to hold onto those who might otherwise slip away with time. For me, people are poems.

To be loved is to be remembered. Not in the grand, chiseled milestones; birthdays, favorite songs, or the cities once dreamed of; but in the details that slip by unnoticed. The dust moth caught in a beam of sunlight, footprints dissolving into damp earth, the ghost of a handprint on a frost-kissed window. It is not recollection but care- the quiet recognition of the invisible stitches that weave someone into the fabric of your existence. To remember someone in the smallest ways is to say, "I was truly there with you."

People mistake this for a good memory, but it is something softer, something deeper. It is remembering an offhand remark about wanting to be a beekeeper and asking months later if the dream still lingers. It is knowing that ice cream is always chosen, no matter the season. It is sensing the exhaustion laced within a familiar voice, understanding that, despite claiming indifference, how I quietly adore yet another so-called ‘capitalist’ holiday. It is simply listening when asked, "How was your day?"- a question that, when asked with intention, carries the weight of unspoken silence.

To be remembered is to be distilled into something elemental- not just through words but through things that evoke presence. It is when you show me a bunch of wildflowers, effortless and vibrant against the backdrop of nature. The shifting phases of the moon, a quiet echo of my love for the sky. A video game character - clumsy, luminous, or bright - who somehow to you feels like me. A song hummed absentmindedly, bringing pause, the kind that makes you wonder if I’d like it too. A random snapshot of your dog, its eyes brimming with stories it cannot tell, yet you'd know I'd listen anyway.

I beg to be remembered by a world that does not remember itself. I chase remembrance, plead for a place in the mouth of strangers, hoping my name lingers like the final note of an unsung melody, carved by someone who adored me, like graffiti left on a wall long after the artist has faded. Perhaps it is a foolish wish, to carve myself into the fabric of the remembered, to ask the wind to carry whispers of my name beyond the places I have known. Why? Because to be remembered by someone who truly cared is the greatest form of appreciation, a testament that I existed, that I mattered, that my presence was more than just passing dust in the wind.

I do not long to be captured in elaborate paragraphs of admiration. I want to exist in colors, in fleeting reminders, in the subtle things that bring me to mind; without having to ask for it. Perhaps this is why I adore art and literature; not merely for their beauty, but for their ability to encapsulate presence.

The Starry Night is not just a painting; it is a descent into swirling hues of longing. The Scream does not merely depict a figure; it echoes an artist’s cry across time. Frida Kahlo’s self-portrait is more than paint on canvas; it is a gaze heavy with unspoken stories. These works were not created in a day. They were lived. Their meaning woven over time into something eternal. To look at them is to feel the artist still breathing within the brushstrokes, to hear the whispers of their lingering presence.

Art does not merely exist; it lingers, it breathes, it endures. And that, to me, is the highest form of appreciation. It took Leonardo da Vinci over a decade to create Mona Lisa. Imagine if she could see herself now, centuries later, still held in the eyes of those who marvel at her. Not just as a subject, but as a presence immortalized in art.

If appreciation could breathe, then I wish to exist as strokes of color spilling beyond the frame, a canvas alive with meaning. I carve people in ink so they may outlive the silence of time. But I wonder: what is it like to be the one held within the brushstroke? The one sculpted from light and longing? To be remembered not as the artist but as the art itself? To be the unspoken thought caught between turning pages, the reflection that lingers in an empty mirror, the warmth of hands recently let go?

The artist fades, but the painting endures. The poet vanishes, but the verse lingers. This is the quiet ache I carry, a longing to be more than a whisper lost to the wind. To be not just the ink that tells the story, but the story itself, etched in the marrow of those who dare to see.

Yet, this is not about validation. Art is not bound by its frame, nor a poem by its ink. This desire to be art is about being understood; to be appreciated for my existence, not just for what I create. To not be merely observed; I wish to be breathed, to be felt in the spaces between moments, cherished not for what I offer, but simply for existing. A desperate wish to be remembered in a world that forgets itself.

Unrealistic, perhaps, but profoundly alluring. To be art is to live in the eyes of those who behold it, carried in hearts long after they look away. Maybe this is a selfish plea to the universe. But what greater devotion exists than to be created, to be seen and held in the quiet awe of someone’s craft?

 

~ Daebee

In the canvas of their gaze 

Akshaya

Harshitha

Mr. ElegantCutlet 

Disha

Grishma

Rohan

Vikas

First try at painting myself 

Second try and it looks more accurate of my features