I wasn't talking about 'art', whatever that might be.
I was talking about beauty.
Friday 23 April 2010
Thursday 22 April 2010
Those who are left behind...
I used to say (and be quite proud of saying), that 'art' was the only universal good, the only entity that was good in and of itself, without contingency or reference point.
(of course, I never said that in such eloquent language... you, I, one, never speaks as well as they might write. embarrassed by greatness? socially humble? perhaps. or maybe just lacking the necessary skills... the quick-witted-ness... but that's another debate!)
How I hate to love, love to hate having my views challenged. (word games always the word games, like the fucking Handmaid in the Tale)
Firstly - inevitably - what is art? The actual, factual, expression of nature, be it human or otherwise? Crass and crude - BALD. Without embellishment or decoration, like a warty foot with neither sock nor shoe. But nonetheless, a foot thrust in our face for inspection, by some clever outsider. Hence the art. The art of bringing to attention.
Or is it's essence to display the connotations of 'nature', it's subtleties, an INTERPRETATION OF that nature that constitutes the art? Conveyed by way of delicate metaphor, device. The leering old man preying upon glowing young boy becomes an innocent tempted by Apollo.
Even to consider such a teleological interpretation of art is to undermine my original premise of intrinsic goodness. The art must be found purely within the metaphor itself, devoid of external meaning, an expression without subject. Pure. PURE PURE PURE.
And what of the Artist himself? It is a logical, and moral, mistake to exalt his status beyond that of any anonymous man. For the 'art' that is accredited to him is not his own, but a product of humanity, of all those with whom he has come into contact, and all of those who have come into contact with them, and so on, in a continuous chain a meetings and partings and lasting influences. The Artist is merely a vessel.
It is a reflection upon the self-seeking, egotistic and yet ultimately fragile nature of human kind, that the Artist seeks posterity in Biography, in his fans, in endless editions and reproductions of his work. That there are always those who are left out, those who are left behind. The 'unidentified girls, and unidentifiable boys.'
Such a chaos of ideas. Like a whirlpool. Like string theory. Seemingly unconnected water droplets that are pulled together by some overriding force, dragged into uniformity, swirling into the depths.
Where is the truth? Lost in the detail.
(of course, I never said that in such eloquent language... you, I, one, never speaks as well as they might write. embarrassed by greatness? socially humble? perhaps. or maybe just lacking the necessary skills... the quick-witted-ness... but that's another debate!)
How I hate to love, love to hate having my views challenged. (word games always the word games, like the fucking Handmaid in the Tale)
Firstly - inevitably - what is art? The actual, factual, expression of nature, be it human or otherwise? Crass and crude - BALD. Without embellishment or decoration, like a warty foot with neither sock nor shoe. But nonetheless, a foot thrust in our face for inspection, by some clever outsider. Hence the art. The art of bringing to attention.
Or is it's essence to display the connotations of 'nature', it's subtleties, an INTERPRETATION OF that nature that constitutes the art? Conveyed by way of delicate metaphor, device. The leering old man preying upon glowing young boy becomes an innocent tempted by Apollo.
Even to consider such a teleological interpretation of art is to undermine my original premise of intrinsic goodness. The art must be found purely within the metaphor itself, devoid of external meaning, an expression without subject. Pure. PURE PURE PURE.
And what of the Artist himself? It is a logical, and moral, mistake to exalt his status beyond that of any anonymous man. For the 'art' that is accredited to him is not his own, but a product of humanity, of all those with whom he has come into contact, and all of those who have come into contact with them, and so on, in a continuous chain a meetings and partings and lasting influences. The Artist is merely a vessel.
It is a reflection upon the self-seeking, egotistic and yet ultimately fragile nature of human kind, that the Artist seeks posterity in Biography, in his fans, in endless editions and reproductions of his work. That there are always those who are left out, those who are left behind. The 'unidentified girls, and unidentifiable boys.'
Such a chaos of ideas. Like a whirlpool. Like string theory. Seemingly unconnected water droplets that are pulled together by some overriding force, dragged into uniformity, swirling into the depths.
Where is the truth? Lost in the detail.
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