art
Art is a commitment, from the universe. A fire that does not extinguish itself in the blunt of time, art can be evaded, minimized, or deleted–as best as the human condition might allow–but art returns just the same. For the artist, it is a gentle thump in the night that pulls the individual from bed forcing back sleep, giving weight to the canvas or the manuscript. Art hauls you away from lovers so you can research, enhance, or better understand your project. Art is the menial jobs. Art is loneliness. Art is sadness, joy, the heartbeat of the universe and the need of humans to express that beat. Art is an unfair trade.
Art is the lack of hope that anyone will ever touch your work. Art is the pull that binds you to a task, without hope, reason, or a notion of parole. Art is the wind, your heartbeat, and if you are lucky, the blended heartbeat of another.
Art is a quiet misunderstanding from your friends with their litany of truth. Insights from guests who pity the madness, art is separation from those who care. The clothier of rational viewpoints and food for critics, art is pursuit.
There is lasting art. There is art’s novelty. There is the wonder of creation. The myths of existence, the birth of sense–fresh and honest–the clarity that there is something new under the sun, any day, that’s art. It is every day. Art feels the worth of originality, by building upon dull foundations, outdated methods, and steel-toed thoughts.
Art is the delivery of soul across the galaxy. Art is not holy. Art is not good. Art is not bad. Art is process. Only in freedom can we be part of it. Judgment is its cage, that child birthed by civilizations’ need for order–in other words fear. Art is the enemy of civilized society, which is why so few are afflicted.
Art is need, because there is nothing else. Art is the horror of seeing work defiled in the guise of market forces. Criminal forces that say the worth of an item is the money that flows, not the beauty calling from artwork and its creator. Art is seeing a beaten artist give way to the market and suffering at the end of life. The display of sham, the caress of satire, the joke of limited existence, art has no hope, just truth.
Swimming in the cold waters of commerce, art paddles in the most insignificant part of the pool. Art is the need to be free. To reject the job of becoming the perfect consumer, to own the pool: to love commerce, that work of ego. The need for control; the desire of man to own a life he can never own; only the afflicted can deliver art and not be tied to the futility, but instead to the beauty. Art is delusion.
Art is the struggle of an author to deliver new insights into a world apparently owned by ego-masters, perfect consumers, declaring there is nothing new or beautiful. Art is not marketing and demographics. Art is the lust for confusion. Creating beauty and in the method proving beauty, truth, an unequivocal proof of goodness in humanity–alive and unyielding. Art is mockery of the market, or any other structure that dictates the denigration of humans, animals, or the peculiar declaration that the planet is civilized. Art is madness wrapped as a gift, passion, driving souls to their breaking point. So those souls might open up for more of this carriage’s journey.
Art declares that inside the market there is nothing of value, only birth, death, and the suffering in between. Art mourns the death of passion. Art withers in the presence of hungry ghosts.
Art is not the need to lead, or the want to speak, or write, or paint, or dance, or make music. Art is not an end. Art is the search for process, not process. Art fosters works that make no sense–until they do make sense–acted upon by the universe’s own artwork: for humans, the passage of time.
Art is the decision to be owned by the environment, independent, self-directed, strong, in love with this good universe, because there was never a choice. Art is a right-cross knuckling society’s chin of foolishness forcing empire to spit out the teeth of beauty.
Art is the kinetics of a scared child’s hand on a keyboard or teaching a bow to dance across a sting. It is deafness enhanced by desire. Art is hunger. Art is not fear. Fear is the antidote to art–as it is the antidote to love. Art is an artist wanting to cower in fear from governments and corporations that find the work offensive; more, art is the decision not to cower in the face of repression.
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