The possibilities afforded by concentration are balanced by the opportunities available to the mind without a destination; or, sometimes a journey is a journey.
Water: Weaving the hairs of my thighs, charging the electricity in my balls.
Wind: Freezing my scrotum in icy hands, kneading it into a massed intensity.
Me: Shivering. Stepping onto the prodding rocks, and stumbling, shrunken in the wake of a passing intercity train.
The Energy Involved in Creativity
And who will throw away their money to support this artistry, when they can, for the same effort, produce absolutely nothing? Not that the production of something (tangible, or otherwise) is the measure of a successful ‘self,’ but the strength expended in pursuing dubious goals seems as much as an insult to those who haven’t enough strength, or whose own goals are left unreached for the sake of some little energy shared—yet abhorring socialism, why could I demand sharing such energy? Because I might also be able to share some little bit of energy, in the assistance of someone else’s goal-reaching.
So the expenditures are made, and in pursuit of all manner of crap. Sure, if you’ve been convinced you need it–especially necessary if you want to be happy, fulfilled, attractive, and other concepts of Madison Avenue…
Importing a picture, it somehow became distorted, and I end up with…a coding problem that, while remaining the fundamentally ‘original’ image, is somehow now something completely other. Incident becomes art, accident becomes meaningful—does that have any significance?
Defragmented, fragmented, the new deconstructionist ethos comprised of accidental distortion and irrelevant symbols of non-direction and non-plus ultra pointlessness. Could this be some mantra for the new millennium?
I have suddenly learned to enjoy the electronic medium–who says it isn’t art, simply because it doesn’t follow age-old techniques…there was once a time when brushes, pens, and other stuff were new too.
Hemming and Hawing over Aesthetics
The pretentious artists and insecure arbiters of our taste, to say nothing of our stimulation, haw and hem leeringly at the absurd humanity. That selfsame insecure and pretentious cabal which has enveloped me, like some woman’s womb. A woman who lives a life spent at the mercy of the merciless, who lives at the grace of the graceless, under the constraint of the unrestrained.
In contrast, and strangely similar are the powerbrokers. They exercise a troubled and tawdry backslapping, as a congenial response to the continual prevarications of the arbiters. And who doesn’t want power, even at the albeit high cost of ‘broke?’ Morally broke, yet powerful.
Freshness. So the plastic seal say’d. Fresh and exciting, something new. Under plastic, wrapped—clearly visible, but without converse with the world without. Without sex there is a displaced reproductive urge.
Self esteem issues? Absurd humanity—splintered now, not only so much the platonic split, or the ego, but into separate and inequal societies of mutual interests and dissimilar beliefs, a community of division and conflict, or the agreeable hatreds of the schismatic simpletons.
Bypass the clotted emulsion on the sidewalk—the ejecta of some child of woman’s womb. The swishing one is also the product of the selfsame engine. Swish swish, slosh slosh, tread upon the emulsion, its name is child.
Policy or Art
Dullardry or sensuality…I sat in the most awful meeting this morning, dreaming of painting, and knowing, that if once elucidated my desire, I would be blamed, be barred, and have no means…shame on the creative, your place is as a mendicant. Starve, you aesthetic asshole, they feel, while we build acronyms and meaningless catch-phrases. How many fish we will dump on those without a fishing rod or training.
Why Artists Starve
Random passing person: “I’m sure your work would sell more readily if it were blatantly erotic. I appreciate the fact that it’s not, but perhaps you could draw some genitals under a pseudonym?”
What is Café Work?
It is portable. If it is something I am able to carry from café to café, then it must be simpler tools. Usually markers, pencils, pigment liners et cetera. The paper is small.
It must be small, because café tables are small, and being inconspicuous is part of the semantic. Also I find peace in intricacy.
It is the focal point of relaxation and interaction. People unwind at the café, people go there to talk; to eat, drink, and be merry. I sit in a corner and observe, and eavesdrop, and occasionally take part or am included, but the hours I spend there are hours watching a familiar rhythm. What I draw in cafés can be looked at as an amalgam of the noise, the smoke, the smells, and the rhythm of the café—and therefore of life…
Art as a Means of Defiance
Can artists be blamed for using not only their creation, but also their creativity as a method for defying society? For long artists were required to deify society to earn their keep. Suddenly artists find themselves, through the unenviable expedient of social decay, as a social caste so ‘on the fringe’ that society becomes an intangible.
Social decay, the end of nationalism, and the growth of pan-nationalism, although uneven, signifies the penultimate outcome of the nationalist dogma. Pan-nationalism, or even ‘globalism’ may not actually be the outcome, but from this disadvantage point, it would seem so.
Both the ‘cult of genius’ and the ‘breadless art’ are entwined to ensure that artists are not in the washer-and-dryer caste of capitalist societies. A creative person must put that creativity to use for the ‘social good’ in a way that created more washers and dryers. When individualism asserts itself, a growling stomach is the likely reward–unless an artist ‘makes it.’ The growling stomach, the dogged individualism, the lack of a washer and dryer all conspire to add a new easy-fit category for this culture which categorizes and dismisses.
Fringe is that point in relationship to the washer-and-dryer society where the individual shares with other individuals the sensation of dispossession and freedom, the tension between them, and the often irrational yearning for the ascendancy of one or the other. How does society become an intangible? When a person is somehow removed form it, through whatever agency, that person can view it from a separate perspective. By having a separate perspective, that person who views society is suddenly, irrevocably, and poignantly anti-social, a sociopath, a fringe-dweller. To ‘see’ society is to be apart from society.
The Inherent Dishonesty in Apparent Truth
Lines, sensuous in their simplicity, and tenuous in their malleability…
These lines, which conjunct, at angles, create angles, create shapes, create boundaries, create…these lines.
Parallel lines give volume, a sense of existence in the accommodation of between the lines. Intersections of complementary lines winnow reality into an ever more taut relationship, a quickening of the sensation of boundaries, of conjunction, of the lines themselves, which, with proximity, give rise to a sensation of magnitude.
Supplementary lines have the power to magnify, and a rhythm enhanced, of separation, of distance, of compass—continuing in severity through the use of curves, with their infinite measure, of ‘finiteness’—no matter how flat the arc, it meets itself indeed somewhere.
Our intersection of shapes…the lines, implied, or ebullient, our curves, arcs, and circles; our radii, squares, rhomboids, trapezoids, parallelograms, hyperbolae, triangles, angles, ovals, borders, points, dots…is a dot a circle? Is a line existent if it is merely the implied connexion of two points? Is a radii of one circle actually the diameter of another, implied circle? Does the position of a radius define the beginning and end of a seemingly infinite circle? Will the spiral eventually become a circle in its outward progression—not by the axioms of mathematics, but by the unwillingness of the human mind to follow it beyond a certain point? And is that certain point—taken as a mean of sampled minds, profound?
If a line has any thickness, it must connect infinite points. If infinite points lie at either end of a ‘thick’ line, the line becomes meaningless, and inadvertently an angle instead. A line cannot be represented and simultaneously be accurate, rather, it is a representation of the will of a human mind to designate a space, but is also the visual symbol of the limit of human intellect when dealing with the infinite, for the creation of line symbolizes an arbitrary arrangement relating points—but without specificity, infinity, or truth.
All lines are angles, and remain inaccurate, and therefore untrue. The search for truth in the apparent cleanliness of line is futile and misleading.
Two roads diverged in a golden wood and I; I took the road which bent at a thirty degree angle from my standpoint, for that was more aesthetically pleasing.