I look at you and I write down what I hear.

When Virgil Thomson declared, “I look at you and I write down what I hear,” he revealed the sacred power of the artist: the ability to translate the unseen essence of a person into a language of beauty. In this truth, looking is not a mere act of the eyes, nor hearing merely the work of the ears. It is the artist’s deeper vision, perceiving the soul beneath the surface, and the artist’s deeper listening, catching the music that lies unspoken within the heart. To write down what is heard is to take the fleeting and give it form, to capture the invisible in lines that endure.

The ancients knew this gift. They spoke of poets as prophets, as those who could hear what the common ear could not. The poet did not merely describe; he revealed. The painter did not merely copy; he unveiled. And the composer, like Thomson, listened not only to voices but to the hidden music of the soul. Thus, when he gazed upon another, he was not transcribing words, but essence. To “write down what I hear” is to craft art that resonates with truth, so that others may recognize themselves within it.

Consider the tale of Leonardo da Vinci. When he painted the Mona Lisa, he did not give the world a woman’s likeness alone. He captured the silent mystery in her gaze, the whisper of a soul behind her smile. He looked and he heard something beyond the visible, and with his hand he wrote it upon canvas. Centuries later, millions stand before it, feeling the quiet music he transcribed. This is the same power Thomson spoke of—the transformation of the inner life into art that outlives its subject.

There is also wisdom here about empathy. To look and to hear another is to honor them. In a world often deaf to the cries of the weary and blind to the struggles of the broken, the artist becomes a witness. When Thomson wrote music inspired by faces and lives, he gave testimony: “I see you. I hear you. You are worthy of song.” This act is both tender and heroic, for it gives voice to those who may not know how to sing their own truths.

Thomson’s words remind us that creation is not about invention alone, but about deep attention. The artist’s task is not to force meaning, but to listen with the soul. This is why the Psalms still move us, why Homer’s verses still thunder, why a song from centuries past can still stir tears: because their creators listened first, and wrote down only what was truly heard. From attentive listening springs timeless art.

The lesson is clear: if you would create, then first look with compassion and listen with reverence. See not only the surface of others, but the depths. Do not rush to speak, to write, to perform—wait until you have truly heard. Then, when you give your words, your music, your work, it will carry the weight of truth, and truth always endures.

Practically, let each day be an exercise in listening. Listen to the voices of those around you, but also to their silences. Watch their gestures, hear their unsung songs. Write them down—not only in journals and poems, but in how you live, in how you respond, in how you honor their humanity. For to witness another soul and to bear it faithfully is one of the highest callings we are given.

Thus, carry Thomson’s wisdom with you: look deeply, hear carefully, and then write down what you have gathered. In this way, your life itself becomes art, your words become truth, and your deeds become a music that others will recognize as their own. This is the ancient task of the artist and the eternal duty of the human soul.