I’d like to take a diversion from my story of the last few posts and discuss a philosophical point of debate. Why are some of us compelled to make art? You have to understand when I say art I mean the loathsome, fear inducing, diabolical, good for nothing, manic, depressive, infuriating, completely random, utterly beautiful acts of where-did-that-come-from that we spend hours giving birth to like Atlas in the eternal void pulling the world from his arse just so he can feel the weight of a squirming waking world resting on his shoulders.
If ever there was a reason to question evolution it has to be the insatiable desire to create despite the grim reality that most works of art remain forever locked away in obscurity. If survival of the fittest was the gospel truth then artists would have evolved into accountants long ago. While I’m at it, the same argument could be applied to the questionable existence of god. Honestly, if there was a god wouldn’t he have an infinitely large refrigerator where all works of art could be displayed? Judging by the pile of musty manuscripts in my desk drawer god is either a poor parent or an even worse writing instructor.
Getting back to the original question, why do we create art? Come to think of it, what is art? Now that’s a question. Here’s a definition you’ll want to hold onto: Art is equal parts inspiration and self loathing bound together by a continual fear of rejection.
Ah, now that’s a definition you can sink your teeth into. A definition right from the gut. There’s nothing like the smell of fear and loathing in the morning. And yet it’s the moments of inspiration that rule the day, that keep the artist coming back for more like a newlywed on their wedding night. Inspiration gives the feeling of being utterly alone yet connected to all things in the universe, suspended in time, eternal yet fleeting without a care or Starbucks in sight.
The struggle is timeless. Don’t think it coincidental that the early cave drawings are hidden deep within tunnels of rock. Believe me, those early cave artists understood. They invented obscurity long before civilization gave rise to the word.
Why do we create art? Why do we breathe? Why do we procreate? Why our proclivity for sugar cereal despite governmental warnings? Life is a mystery, a lesson in yearning and brute survival with the occasional moment of ecstasy thrown in to keep our libido pumping.
Why do we create art? Because life is a surprise, and some surprises look best mounted on the wall, or bound in hardcover, or sung to a child who won’t go to sleep no matter how much Captain Crunch you give them before bedtime.
Why do we create art? Because the artist is and always will be within each of us.
My oh my Mr. Richards. You really tore the scab off my complete, unadulterated, pinpoint focused understanding of how my art was an act of divinity but no instead is a reflection of my... how do you put it.... self-loathing? I always thought it was He, the Master, the Great One, the All Knowing, the Aqua-Buddah speaking to me but NO! now you have me asking questions (to myself, I do that alot) about that source too. Damn you - DAMN YOU I SAY!
ReplyDeleteIn the future please do not take these matters of faith, of love, of art, of torture into your cynical little (yes I said little) hands as if they are theoretical toys for you to play with (you shouldn't do that in public anyway) and take and tear apart and then put back together in a morphed, alien fashion that will now and from here on out create nothing - NOTHING I TELL YOU - but nightmares about clowns, spiders and reruns of "Three's Company" (come to think of it the "Three's Company" thing might be a different type of dream altogether).
Uh... Aquah Buddah? Isn't that an aftershave?
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