September 12, 2010 § 2 Comments
In the past few months, three former classmates of mine have committed suicide; they were all friends of mine and kept me company with their arts for almost the whole of my life and were the ones who really made my existence in the least bit possible. The musician killed (shot) himself because people had no ear for his art. The painter killed (hanged) himself because people had no eyes for his art. The scientist, with whom I even went to primary school, killed (poisoned) himself because people, in his opinion, had no head for science. All three had had to withdraw from life because they were in despair over the fact that the world no longer had the feelings or abilities to take in their art and their science. « 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.