I am at the close of my first semester as an art student and feel as though my view of art has become unjustly negative. The last few months have been intense -- magnified like a pressure-cooker by the startling revelation of Martin Beck, a graduate alumni at my school who stated that, "those for whom art is their life become extremely dull." I'm beginning to question whether art is really the noble pursuit that it appears to be. I began to think that perhaps art is full of the same paradoxes as life. More specifically, that who enter college as artists, only to change their major in the course of time are the ones who preserve the basest form and enjoyment of art. It's the ones who continue in the art profession who ultimately sell out -- not because they're corrupt or even because they're jaded (although that tends to happen anyway) -- but because they're forced to sell themselves to make a living. The once pure and unadulterated passion becomes tarnished, and that is inevitable when you make a living doing what you love.
The following is a conversation I had with a friend over lunch. A little armchair economics minus the economics.
What is Art?
Defining something that doesn't make sense.
Art as a Metaphor
Art is creative bullshit.
Art is aesthetically pleasing crap.
Contemporary art is glorified crap.
Performance art is an excuse for exhibitionists to strip naked.
Art is an inventive channel to express everything that does not belong with common sense.
Art is like an itch that won’t go away.
Art is like Vaseline. When you put it on, it sticks to everything.
Art is like a black pawn that wants to be white. No matter what color it is, it’s still a pawn and it’s still going to get trashed.
Art as Food
Art is like bread. They can be white, brown, or yellow, but when you put them in the toaster, they all get burned.
Art is like an unkosher dumpling. It’s thin and delicate on the outside, but inside it’s just vulgar.
Art as Sex
Art is like going out at night looking to get laid. Sometimes you get lucky, and sometimes you don’t.
Art is like prostitution. The most successful artist has mastered the art of selling herself.
Art is like having sex when your brain has turned to mush. It doesn’t take any intelligence to do.
Art is like a Las Vegas prostitute: a luxury you can't afford.
Art is like a whore that has reached her prime: it becomes cheapened over time.
Art as a Lesson in Futility
Art is like an addict coming out of an ether binge. Any effort to resist is futile.
Contemporary art is like counting the hairs on your head. It’s (f******) pointless.
Real art is like counting the hairs on your head. It’s (f******) impossible.
Typically, I don't like these online communities cuz the people in em have ended up feeling really negative to my gut.
Currently, I'm transforming into a wish I made years ago, and that transformation insist I stay in doors and keep to myself a lot. Hence, I'm here letting loose, being myself, and speaking my mind.
Are any of you all religious? I was brought up to be religious, but I'm not anymore. Lately, with the exception of a few, I find religious people very irritable. I can't even speak with them extensively, if at all, without them irritating me. Anyone out there know what I mean?
hi everyone. so far i've read "l'étranger" and "caligula" and loved both. i think what i loved most about "l'étranger" was the simplicity. it was genius and simple. it didn't HAVE to be complicated to be wonderful.
forgive me for posting a little off-topic, but i've bene looking for a picture of camus where he's reading a paper that says "EN AVANT!". my french class had a laminated poster of it, but i couldn't find the picture on google or corbis. if anyone has any idea where i can find this picture, i'd really appreciate the help. thanks!
If the Spoken Words
To Disguise the Mind
Are All There is
To Hide Behind
And Rides the Tide
To Where the Fridged
Time moves to fast to slow down
Life continues to fight the current
Convinced the clock is poking fun
Certain the rate is too high
Decided on parting ways
But always looking over a shoulder
To many thoughts to think for a thought
So many words to say for the statement
Impulse tempting to the mind
Silence is faster than words
No need to set it to motion
It is already done
Look over a shoulder
There it was
im interested in hearing others' views.
my name is jessica. my favorite things to do are to write and drink. usually in combination. my favorite authors are sartre, mckenna, engels, camus...etc..my favorite books are gravity's rainbow, dangerous angels, the man who turned on the world, and nausea. i love music, art, creating....my aim is atleasturglmrous. feel free to contact me. or add my journal, etc....
this is an excerpt from my journal:
if your not going to read the whole thing, please dont bother to read any of it, as it is more of a painting than a story...its hard to explain. thanks.
a few days ago...i was walking down martel, to melrose. hollywood is where my heart is. its a little storybook land. with shadows and witch women walking their hybrid wolf dogs- so out of place like features resculped by a surgeons knife on the previously untainted canvas of a face.....like puzzle pieces scattered in the wind.....misfits sticking together in bubbles of storms, tar and feathers, accidently pairing up and piling on the powder to cover it all up. the ridiculousness of everything. homeless people sleeping on the street. all day. THEY SLEEP ALL DAY. home-less. without money you are immobile. shouldnt seeing someone sleeping on a busy street midday be just as big a suprise as seeing a dragon flying across the fucking sky? no...immobility makes you disapear. get this. money does not buy happiness..hahaha of course, thats a completely silly notion. but money buys TIME......its pretty simple if you just think about it. an item of luxury is worth a certain amount of money...it takes a certain amount of time to make it, you are willing to put out a certain amount of time to work to make the money to pay for the item...etc. so the way i see money is basically an applicable measurement of time created to capitalize on peoples differences. once upon a time there was this big bubble, and it was made of little pixels, little particles. the air was clean and everyone could breath. language was smooth and it rolled along tongues and bounced over lips and sung to trees and stroked sweaty hair back from shaking bodies when necessary. it was used in a non threatening way. god was in nature. something began to change...for the worse...slowly...and then time sped up...somgthing was changing for the worse exponentially. brains went numb with capsules that looked like candy, communication started shutting down out side of the workplace. factories guarded the skyline and singing could no longer permeate the sound walls set up by groups of soul stealers who had taken advantage of the anarcho system previously responsible for sharing of time pixels and energy particles. language halted. brains continued to grow, to match the exponentially growing universe, the exploding chaos that no longer looked like an opening rose bud but more like a once treasured, antique home doused with gasoline and lit with a single match. millions of voices hummed marches in minor keys and chanted from thousands of dark corners "destruction is creation" "destruction is creation". everything was getting faster and smaller and more obscure. children were multiplying and organs and parts were getting misdistributed. disease was abound. there were just too many things to take care of. the universe was slowly creating another dimension inside of a tunnel that looked like an underground london subway with every thing sublimnal in the form of beautiful swirling psychedlic murals coating its walls. this is still going on, preperation in the background and in the foreground: levitating spirals of DNA, historical events with similarity but not symmetry making track marks along glowing helixes. we are coming to the tip of things. battles make rivers that flood market places and eye sockets and bathtubs with shimmering army wives resting below the face of the water: a meeting point. and the money keeps piling in, because people are restless, and god is getting sucked out of the water from high tech vacuums. well, brains continue to grow, but language has long since halted. homeostasis has become foreign to internal and external systems. symbiosis is dead, dictators have made parasitic relationships mandatory and anyone caught trying to balance both sides of the equation is labeled clinically messed-up-in-the-head. "WHAT equation?" they say, and LAUGH and laugh and laugh while razors pile up inside your dresser and dreams of hooks catching wrists in water haunt your resting mind. mothers stroking raised scars. nightmares of validation. everyone hates how their appearance. noone knows what they look like to the rest of the world. language has become an exchange of cliches. language has become capitalism. supply and demand. suck it up, little girl. crying is illegal. crying is illegal. crying is illegal. repetition is for retards.there are no such thing as nightmares anymore. they are classified as dreams. sometimes getting fucked up and selling your soul for a glimpse of a blurred reflection vomiting in a bathroom stall can be passed off as a dream too. sometimes. sickness has been stemming from an inablity to voice exponentiallly growing emotions becausee of nonexistant letters of the alphabet. existential transactions appear to occur in cool offices (for some reason its always twilight and theres always dust on the ledge of the window next to the sofa). but the doctor doesnt really want to be there and the patient doesnt really want to talk to the doctor...they just fish around in a stale pool of tank water that hasnt been changed in ages..oh...ages..fish around for different combinations and they break apart cliches which become puzzle pieces which get paired up and stuck together tar and feathers like mismatched features resculpted and plastered on a previously innocent human face. broken souls. psychiatric diseases of intelligence. cant you see? when it comes back to a primal scream, its a sign that language can no longer transcend cognition. so on comes the medication. it boosts self esteem. no, it numbs it. movements become free-er for designated periods of time. people meet on weekends to self medicate and look in mirrors and cry together. but hangovers wear off, and those sharp pains come back. like the one behind my ear, closest to my left occipital lobe. my eye blurs when it happens. i worry that i have a slowly growing brain tumor. soon it will be growing exponentially. tears come to my eyes when i look out the window at the jacarandas, the news induces no type of emotional reaction. ive already seen headless dan at countless friends houses when i was in highschool. im seventeen. i have very few memories.
so! kurrently i am reading The Rebel by Camus, fascinating essay. i am not far into it being i usually have to stop every few paragraphs and get my diktionary out, but so far what i have found most amazing about he;s said is how he explained that Satan rebelled from Gosd for a reason, something you rarely ever hear talked about, bekause God was oppressing him. which is true, Satan had realy done little wrong but be a man, he wished to bekome equal to God, and for this crime he was punished and kaste into hell. it's an interesting thought, i have neve rheard it explaiend that wya before. but makes perfekt sense, God, for being such a just being, is truly unjust, oppressing his folowers, and then, oddly enough, basikally kreating the world in the likeness of what he despised. seems as thouhg humans are just shooting praktice for the All Mighty. i did a poor job explaining it though really, so just read the book. it's awesome, and fun, and soemtime dance late in the veening hwne your winding down in front fo the roaring television with a fine chardonet/pepsi in your hand. (between ytou and me, the book lieks friends, and oftne performs elaborate dances when Joey tells jokes)