- Leslie Hudson
How artists imbue their art with magic

The magic of artistic creation. 4/30
I believe that we infuse the things we create with who we are. Beyond this, as a songwriter I actively engage in magical work when I compose, meaning every song that matters to me is one that bears my intent, my passion, and a part of my self. My favourite songs tell stories, and my favourite stories are folktales. Storytelling is what I do.
Creation myths are found all over the world in almost every cultural history, and I think the reason we keep telling them is that we as human beings are fascinated with how something begins. How did these things I know, use, say, believe in, become something out of nothing? What spark of consciousness developed? There was no song or poem or story and then there was. Every time an artist or storyteller creates, something is born into the universe where nothing existed a moment before.
When looking for a folktale to fit the prompt I was given this week for the song-a-week challenge I'm doing in 2020, I was directed to a Chinese (Chuang) folktale by my friend, Caroline, whose library I borrow books from weekly. There are variations on its title, but it is often called "The Magic Brocade" or "The Piece of Chuang Brocade." There are several versions available to read online (like this one).
The version I borrowed and read is The Weaving of a Dream, retold and illustrated by Marilee Heyer (NY: Viking Kestrel, 1986). Her illustrations are as breathtaking in detail as they are in the brocade that is central to the story.
I wanted to tell the story in the song in three parts: the widow who weaves a brocade version of a painting she loves that takes three years to complete; the hermit who lives on a mountaintop and guides each of the widow's three sons to their chosen fates; and the fairies who've stolen the brocade so they can copy the work of a master. In between these triple-verse-sections the sons act as vehicles of all these women's wishes and/or at their direction.
In the story, the widow cries tears of exhaustion and dedication onto her weaving, which she then turns into rivers. When drops of blood fall, some versions have her weave them into the blood red of the setting sun, or into flowers in the gardens that surround the castle in her painting-inspired brocade. A fitting metaphor for the blood, sweat and tears with which artists imbue their work.
The song I wrote inspired by this Chinese folktale will appear on my next Wanderlings album, The Wanderlings Volume Three, which I am currently writing.
A Widow Wove in Wonders
a widow wove in wonders her brocade
and traded one for a painting
of a castle with a garden
every stroke of brush beguiling
she took it home and longed to live there
a widow wove in wonders her brocade
two of her sons complaining
singing birds and flowers sighing
such a world of silken styling
rivers that flowed with tears ran through it
a widow wove in wonders her brocade
three years until its completion
in the sunlight see her smiling
every single thread was shining
that's when the wind rose up and stole it
one by one her songs set out
to see if they could find it
each in turn they climbed a mountain path
and found a hermit
I know why you have come here, eldest son
though it may cost you dearly
brave the mountain flames and sea of ice
that lie between you and your prize
but he turned back shaken
I know why you have come here, middle son
though you're uncertain clearly
knock out your front teeth and set them
in my horse's mouth so he can eat
or take this gold and go home
I know why you have come here, youngest son
soon it won't be as cheerfully
for the fairies stole your mother's sweet brocade
to make another
courage you'll need to reach Sun Mountain
so he did what she required
and took the stone horse riding
to the place the fairies
and his mother's work were biding
the fairies wove in wonder their brocades
doing their best to make copies
castle, river, garden, land
all woven by a master hand that
none of them quite could match completely
the fairies wove in wonder their brocades
none of them ready to stop yet
one more night and then they'd let it go
back to the one who made it
everyone working long past sunset
the fairies wove in wonder their brocades
one all in red deciding
took some silk and wove herself
into the scene while all were sleeping
she couldn't bear to be parted from it
off the youngest brother rode
to bring the hermit's horse back
there she fixed his teeth
and gave a gift of deerskin boots that
took him home at once
his mother overjoyed to see him
brocade became reality
the fairy joined their family
castle, river, garden, land
all woven by a master hand
magic all around them vision-made
a widow wove in wonders her brocade
a widow wove in wonders her brocade
magic was all around them vision-made
a widow wove in wonders her brocade
