October 7, 2010 § Leave a comment
Tell me, Galileo, of this silly poesy we call autumn. Tell me of its φυσικός: its interlocking clockwork; tell me of what Keats—that dripping Romantic—so delightfully mystified with his provocative magic. Tell me this, Galileo, and prove it to me; geometrically, if you must. Whichever method, I know that it will be a beautiful proof, for could there ever be a rapport more esthetically sublime than that of a proposition with its “Q.E.D.”? « Read the rest of this entry »
August 28, 2010 § Leave a comment
In a sense, lack of clarity leaves us room to fill in the holes of what could be. In filling these holes—these local voids of ambiguity—our perspective alters tenfold and you have a mistake mistaken for an idea. This—what John Keats called “negative capability”—is the backbone of aesthetics. Vertebrae by vertebrae it comes together. Though no genealogy can be attempted here. And it is in this sense that the implemented smudging of the lenses can justify the outsiders to spear their nerve endings between the cracks, to pass their fingers across the black-laced veil and all its scars, and to, apparently, shrug their shoulders and move on to the next abandoned project.
Wait. We were supposed to open up with a witty quote… wu-wei does not help here.
Interpretation is a dying art. Now that everyone thinks they’re a critic, a new crack needs to be found in order to enable a less haggard approach in weaving through these decrepit foundations of society’s supposed progress. Art is never a dying art. Musicians, filmmakers, authors, sculptors, painters, comic book tracers, and now bloggers are inventors of their own means and ends, and, with this, we simply respect all sources to discuss and interpret them in new ways, our mouths swarming with a fervent hysteria but only conscious enough to just ripple the lake. Pretension has its own fix.
In the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo. I guess that’s an option.