Belonging and Supreme Delight: Grasping the Core of Artistic Being

Hebrew

To Nicu Horodniceanu — my teacher and spiritual father. All rights reserved. He watched over me with love, until his last breath.

Belonging and the Supreme Joy(Translated from Hebrew – Original by Yaron Margolin)

There are rare and unique moments in the life of the spirit when a person is not seeking the truth—but remembering it.

This is a deep sense of belonging—not to another person, a group, a nation or a land—but to wisdom, to love, to art, and to the idea itself. An inner encounter, almost sacred, with a supreme understanding that draws the person into the depths of the soul, lifts them like a feather in the wind, weightless, carried high above the mundane reality.

In such a moment, emotion, movement, thought, and beauty fuse into a marvelous clarity—a brightness that cannot be separated. The act—whether writing, painting, or dancing—serves as an anchor, settling the person in a protected harbor, preserved like a steady boat in the heart of a storm. This is true creation: the birth of something new from inner strength, from a surprising connection with something that has long captivated the heart, and now comes to life—finding its precise language.

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Such articulation is so essential, so grand, that only the lack of social recognition may cause great suffering—as happened with Rembrandt, who suffered doubly from the gap between the depth of his work and the public’s understanding. Rembrandt lost his freedom, his property, his friends—and yet he continued to paint despite the pain of rejection. It is not merely a question of one who seeks truth or belonging, but of one who remembers it. This is the power of Moses at Sinai: he knows the wise advice will be rejected, and still gives it with the aching heart of a father—for he is responsible. It is a kind of courage: the love of sublime understanding—even when its precise articulation may lead, eventually, to pain. But how many spirits like this exist? How many Rembrandts are there in the world?

The Fear of Birth

There is no necessity for giving birth—only fear. Many great artists have felt the deep fear of the moment when their inner formulation appears revolutionary—and is about to be revealed to the world. Fear of rejection, dismissal, social isolation—of not belonging—these hang like heavy clouds over their heads, like a hailstorm.

Like Moses breaking the Tablets—a moment of rage and despair in the face of rejection and resistance to the new, to wise counsel—the artist too may struggle between the urge to express their inner insight (what some call “truth”) and the fear that it will be dismissed or suppressed.

The excitement of insight, the moment when the spirit lifts the feather.

In the academic world, the desire for public recognition and adherence to accepted standards forms the foundation of belonging. Often, this outweighs the clarity of inner awakening. It becomes decisive: one must cite sources, prove alignment with the existing body of knowledge—sometimes even statistical. You want to write “feather,” but the academic sources say “leaf blown in the wind,” so the student writes “leaf.” There is no feather.

The fear of not belonging is basic, and it can take over—blocking authentic creation. And it does. Newton sat for 20 years thinking how to articulate the insight he likely reached by chance or sudden flash. He invented differential and integral calculus not for its own sake—but so that he would not be rejected by the academy. How many Newtons are there in the world?

Artificial Intelligence, the Academy, and the Artist

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Today, when people speak of artificial intelligence, they must beware of illusion. AI is not Newton—and it certainly was not created by Aspasia. It is the product of academic demand—born in the constraints of a system rooted in existing knowledge. And if these constraints are ever removed, humanity may destroy it out of fear and dread.

AI functions within a realm of existing knowledge—mixing, filtering, cross-referencing—just like the academy, whose goal is to collect, sort, and present accumulated knowledge. Academics, like machines, are born and raised within this world, trained to think from what has already been said, and not beyond it.

The artist, by contrast—like the philosopher, like Aspasia in ancient times—experiences the profound excitement of awakening—of the precise formulation of a new understanding. It is not born from previous knowledge, but from an internal birth of comprehension and depth. It is a different experience: a surrender to the moment in which knowledge transforms into a new, living, primal truth.

Many academic lecturers do not experience this moment of excitement. For them, truth is merely another data point—while for the artist and the philosopher, it is the magic of birth. This, as Plato writes

Have questions?
Yaron Margolin will be happy to answer — with clarity, care, and no false promises.
Just real knowledge, hope, and a clear path forward.

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