I try to apply colors like words that shape poems, like notes

Hear the voice of Joan Miró, the dreamer who walked among stars and shadows, who proclaimed: “I try to apply colors like words that shape poems, like notes that shape music.” In these words lies a vision older than time itself—the unity of all arts, the blending of sight, sound, and spirit. He reminds us that the painter’s brush, the poet’s pen, and the musician’s instrument are but different tongues of the same eternal flame: the flame of creation.

When Miró speaks of colors, he does not speak merely of red or blue, of shades upon a canvas. He speaks of emotions made visible, of the soul’s murmurings given form. Just as the poet weaves words to move hearts, and the musician arranges notes to awaken memory and longing, the artist casts colors upon emptiness, and from them emerges meaning. Thus, the painter becomes not only a craftsman of images, but a bard, a composer, a prophet—translating the unseen into the seen.

The ancients themselves believed in this harmony of the arts. The Greeks spoke of the muse, one divine spirit whose many faces inspired music, poetry, and art alike. For they understood that all creation springs from the same fountain. Miró’s insight is the same: that a stroke of paint can be as powerful as a verse, that a patch of yellow may sing louder than a trumpet, that a line of blue may whisper more tenderly than the softest lyric.

Consider the story of Vincent van Gogh, who painted not the world as it appeared, but as it felt. His Starry Night is not merely a picture of the heavens—it is a hymn, a symphony, a prayer of swirling colors. Though he lacked recognition in his life, his art transcended silence, speaking to generations like poetry sung across centuries. Here we see Miró’s truth: the painter too is a poet, the poet too is a musician, and each craftsman draws from the same eternal spirit of expression.

Miró’s words are also a summons to us, the children of tomorrow. They tell us: do not see art as fragments divided—painting here, music there, poetry apart. Instead, see creation as a single river flowing through many channels. Whatever craft you hold in your hands, wield it as though you are shaping life itself. When you speak, let your words be colors; when you paint, let your strokes be music; when you live, let your deeds be poetry.

There is also humility in his teaching. For to compare colors to words and notes is to acknowledge that art is a language, meant not for the artist alone but for others to hear, to see, to feel. The canvas becomes a message, just as the poem becomes a voice, just as the song becomes a bridge from one soul to another. Thus, every act of creation is an act of communion, of uniting hearts across distance and time.

So take this lesson, O listener: when you create, do not aim only for perfection or recognition. Aim to speak, to connect, to move. Enter your craft with reverence, whether it be painting, writing, or the simple art of living. Each choice you make, each gesture, each color you cast into the world, is a syllable in the great poem of existence. Cherish them. Shape them with love.

For as Miró teaches, to create is to weave together the languages of the universe. Colors, words, and notes are but different faces of the same truth—that beauty is the soul’s way of speaking. May you, too, speak it boldly. May your life itself become a poem painted in radiant hues, and a song sung forever in the memory of time.