The spider has faith that its hard work will prevail- there is never a guarantee that the artistry of its labor will remain beautiful. But it does anyway- it builds its house around itself, an interconnected and very calculated system of tiny threads as strong as steel. It begins by putting its life on the line of a bridge, letting go and floating into the unknown, its only source of connection to something solid being one single strand of thread.
It does a dance in the air, grabbing hold of the invisible waves and letting its fate ride along with it. The spider will live this way for a while, weaving and skipping, do-si-do-ing and twirling, caught in between stability and complete abandon, creativity and forced staticity, waiting to be deposited on its next destination. When it arrives it can begin its creation- a product of aesthetics and practicality- for others to admire and see as a unique and incredibly intricate way to get dinner.
The spider is calculated and severe, waiting for most of its day. Self-assured, a competent and subtle hunter. Blood-thirsty and serene, beautiful and appalling. Sometimes people go by, swatting aside the sticky threads with annoyance. Sometimes a deer brushes the web aside, oblivious to its actions in lieu of enticing food. If in the event of such a sudden interruption, the spider will leave behind the remains of its handiwork, sometimes still intact, collecting stray dust or wilted flower petals as it falls through the breeze, doomed to spend the rest of its days browning in a corner. The artist scuttles away down its branch, watching its home and kitchen floating free in the breeze, now just loose strands, not a great masterpiece. The artist sulks as it is thrown out of its house unceremoniously.
But it catches its breath under the shelter of a stray leaf, bracing itself to the world. Soon it will move on, find another branch or post to root itself, and begin its sensual dance with the wind once more. Eventually it will land on the other side and busily transition to its creative process of weaving and darting, creating another home. The web is strong and secure as steel but as vulnerable as a painting at a museum to the rest of the world- hanging there, waiting, watching…while the rest of the world walks by.