Robin Hawke

June 12, 2011, 12:24 PM
Filed under: Love and Romance | Tags: , , ,

Many years ago, a then-friend and I had an argument; it may have forecast our future split. We disagreed about need.

Artists (I’m including writers) often feel a desperate need to work. My friend was a dancer; she wouldn’t be able to live if she couldn’t dance—I love it that much.

Nonsense. If a car ran over your legs, you’d find something else to do. I was practical and hopeful. But the argument stretched into the night. I advocated transferring skills and she insisted her genius was bound to a wooden or marley floor. Romantic and desperate, I hoped she was never forced to change her identity. Our meal together was awkward and silent. I didn’t understand her restraints.

I wonder why her identity was so rigid and why this attitude chokes up great lovers and great artists. If he dies, I can’t live. Desperate and romantic, singular love is deceptively pure. Artists are greater than their craft. They must be—to deliver worth. People are greater than one love. They must be—to love one person so deeply.


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