Not bragging or complaining, but there is a dissatisfied curse of the artist aesthetic.
Not ever being content with a healthy walk, or hearing a proper opera, we educe the snare of inspiration. Whatever the medium used, it’s all the up-constant and continuing retelling of the thing. The creative spirit keeps us going, questioning our steps, keeping us grounded in the dirt, trudging along.
Floating memory of walking past a pile of fish heads in the lower east side. Some how you knew if you gazed too long the image would burn into your psyche and resurface as a nightmare....
What might it become after it is internalized, digested and reinterpreted? Did it become the skeleton of that horrific bricolage of painted napkins, metal springs and severed doll hands? Did it become your to-do list? Did it become the color lipstick you picked out this morning? Does it have any resemblance to naturalistic form, or, jumped to stylized representation? Nay, transformed into the oblivion of pure abstraction? (Ha! What does art do?) Did it go in as the classical phase and come out Baroque?
What Mannerism do we go from Baroque? Enter the fall of Rome and the ensuing Phoenix.
....The most picayune memory will be carried through a lifetime to be relived in a flash as the unexpected reflection slaps us while we plant this years tomatoes.
If you can imagine yourself driving south while you’re driving north on the east coast, you’ll feel as though you’re driving south on the west. Rest on that
If I knew what art was, I wouldn’t tell you. -Picasso (figures)