Burn it down
If the creation of art is the necessary sublimation of a regressed person, then what happens with failed art? Does that makes things worse? Is it sublimation at all? Is it further regression?
My hands are often the object of my disapproval. I'm not certain if I am happy with it or not, but I consider myself to be more sensuous than intellectual, and for a sensuous person, the hands mean almost everything. They are how I come in contact with things, mold and manipulate, deliver expression, etc. Recently I can't be happy with what my mind and hands have made. I've tried painting and sketching recently, and that feeling that I've created something, that feeling of satisfaction, is absent. Instead I feel disappointed in myself, frustrated, and sometimes angry. What's worse is that I've come to believe that art is something I need to be happy. I need to create, and if what I create is flawed, in the sense that my hands do not do justice to what my mind desires to make, I feel less than neutral. I feel I've fallen into a more regressed state. The space between what the mind wants and the hand fashions becomes exceedingly apparent, and for me it's utter failure. I suppose it all leads back to the mind. It's my intellect that in the end fails me, and that is depressing.
On top of that, I don't think I'm taking good enough care of my body. My eyes are getting worse. I picked up smoking. I don't drink too often, but I never exercise. I eat what I want, minus the meat, but my posture is horrific and I'm often very weak and almost always lazy. I don't maintain a healthy sleeping pattern, but at least I value hygiene highly. I have an obsessive personality, which is terrible given my numerous vices, and I don't have a concrete moral construct. I believe it's because I am not religious. Had I maintained being a Roman Catholic, well, let's not talk about that. I don't actually think the hypothetical is plausible to begin with. I dread imagining the kind of goody-goody brown-nosing yes-man I would have been. Maybe I'd have been innocently/ignorantly blissful, and in a way that's good. At least it's healthy.
Going back to art. What is it that compels me to want to create? Is it a childhood thing? Was I not held enough as a child? I don't think that's it, my parents were overtly nurturing and affectionate and all that. Is it my compulsive need to control? Is it a god-complex? I get mad at myself when I'm compelled to draw or paint. I hate seeing myself fit the role of a narcissistic artist, and I hate how afterward I need someone else's approval to appreciate what I myself have made. Why can't I just dislike it if I feel I do and like it if I legitimately think so? For once just forget what everyone else thinks about me and what I do? If art is sublimation, then it exists for me. For now it's mine, and I should treat it as such, it's necessary for my intellectual and emotional growth. Everyone else doesn't matter. I need to be happy first.
My hands are often the object of my disapproval. I'm not certain if I am happy with it or not, but I consider myself to be more sensuous than intellectual, and for a sensuous person, the hands mean almost everything. They are how I come in contact with things, mold and manipulate, deliver expression, etc. Recently I can't be happy with what my mind and hands have made. I've tried painting and sketching recently, and that feeling that I've created something, that feeling of satisfaction, is absent. Instead I feel disappointed in myself, frustrated, and sometimes angry. What's worse is that I've come to believe that art is something I need to be happy. I need to create, and if what I create is flawed, in the sense that my hands do not do justice to what my mind desires to make, I feel less than neutral. I feel I've fallen into a more regressed state. The space between what the mind wants and the hand fashions becomes exceedingly apparent, and for me it's utter failure. I suppose it all leads back to the mind. It's my intellect that in the end fails me, and that is depressing.
On top of that, I don't think I'm taking good enough care of my body. My eyes are getting worse. I picked up smoking. I don't drink too often, but I never exercise. I eat what I want, minus the meat, but my posture is horrific and I'm often very weak and almost always lazy. I don't maintain a healthy sleeping pattern, but at least I value hygiene highly. I have an obsessive personality, which is terrible given my numerous vices, and I don't have a concrete moral construct. I believe it's because I am not religious. Had I maintained being a Roman Catholic, well, let's not talk about that. I don't actually think the hypothetical is plausible to begin with. I dread imagining the kind of goody-goody brown-nosing yes-man I would have been. Maybe I'd have been innocently/ignorantly blissful, and in a way that's good. At least it's healthy.
Going back to art. What is it that compels me to want to create? Is it a childhood thing? Was I not held enough as a child? I don't think that's it, my parents were overtly nurturing and affectionate and all that. Is it my compulsive need to control? Is it a god-complex? I get mad at myself when I'm compelled to draw or paint. I hate seeing myself fit the role of a narcissistic artist, and I hate how afterward I need someone else's approval to appreciate what I myself have made. Why can't I just dislike it if I feel I do and like it if I legitimately think so? For once just forget what everyone else thinks about me and what I do? If art is sublimation, then it exists for me. For now it's mine, and I should treat it as such, it's necessary for my intellectual and emotional growth. Everyone else doesn't matter. I need to be happy first.