Art musings
A little prefacing:
While this is a somewhat comprehensive analysis of the points I'd like to cover, it is not necessarily how I feel about the subject of "art" in every way, shape, and form; it's sort of a review of a few strong colors I have in my full spectrum on the subject -- some of which contradict each other -- but, hey, that's what you get on complex subjects.
Secondly, it's also one of the center pins in a little internal controversy that has made me rather uninterested in art for the past several months. Not that the appreciation of art or interest in it is gone, but more the meaning and fulfillment -- which I've noticed quite a few other people have mentioned here and there. I'm curious how similar/different these feelings are to everyone else.
Okay, so I'm thumbing through some interior decorator magazine, looking at all these (gorgeous) classical buildings with a dash of "modern" remodeling, and there's a shot of a nice overpriced bedroom with $1,000 bed sheets, $500 wicker chairs, etc. etc. Hanging over the bed is a rather... primitive little doodle of a woman's face, eyelashes drawn down, in a large attention-focusing matte. For a setting THAT overpriced, I was a bit surprised to see this particular piece as the focus of the room, considering it most likely (laughably) cost several thousand dollars.
Why not a photograph? Why not something with a bit more... Skill? Detail? Richness?... involved? How on earth is this careless little squiggle supposed fill the idea of a person, let alone bear the central focus of the living space?
And then, I began to wonder: just what am I drawing, anyway? The most basic simplification of a person, moment, or emotion. Even a photograph, which can capture so much more than mere hinted lines, is so infinitely humble compared to its subject. A single human being, a life, reduced to a paper-thin slice on a microscope slide -- is this the common way of thinking about things?
Not even the full figure is captured; only a tiny flash off of half of the surface, soaked up onto the film. What about the inside? What about all the complex twists and turns that make up such a splendid anatomy? What about the shimmering, sparkling halo of the mind, barely within our science to grasp, let alone represent or imitate?
And then, what about the next moment? What about the infinite spectrum that this individual stretches through time? What about dinner that evening? What about children later in life? What about splashing through the ocean next year through a golden-vermillion sunset?
And then, it occurs to me; all of the feeling, the meaning found in art comes from connecting the dots: from filling in all the middle ground of a puzzle we are only given scant glimmers of -- the faintest, thinnest of motionless notes to fill the span of an eternal symphony. The image becomes the cup we fill with our own reflections... so, at this moment, my biggest question is: Why? Why seek out this familiar but thin representation of life rather than going out and living it?
While this is a somewhat comprehensive analysis of the points I'd like to cover, it is not necessarily how I feel about the subject of "art" in every way, shape, and form; it's sort of a review of a few strong colors I have in my full spectrum on the subject -- some of which contradict each other -- but, hey, that's what you get on complex subjects.
Secondly, it's also one of the center pins in a little internal controversy that has made me rather uninterested in art for the past several months. Not that the appreciation of art or interest in it is gone, but more the meaning and fulfillment -- which I've noticed quite a few other people have mentioned here and there. I'm curious how similar/different these feelings are to everyone else.
Okay, so I'm thumbing through some interior decorator magazine, looking at all these (gorgeous) classical buildings with a dash of "modern" remodeling, and there's a shot of a nice overpriced bedroom with $1,000 bed sheets, $500 wicker chairs, etc. etc. Hanging over the bed is a rather... primitive little doodle of a woman's face, eyelashes drawn down, in a large attention-focusing matte. For a setting THAT overpriced, I was a bit surprised to see this particular piece as the focus of the room, considering it most likely (laughably) cost several thousand dollars.
Why not a photograph? Why not something with a bit more... Skill? Detail? Richness?... involved? How on earth is this careless little squiggle supposed fill the idea of a person, let alone bear the central focus of the living space?
And then, I began to wonder: just what am I drawing, anyway? The most basic simplification of a person, moment, or emotion. Even a photograph, which can capture so much more than mere hinted lines, is so infinitely humble compared to its subject. A single human being, a life, reduced to a paper-thin slice on a microscope slide -- is this the common way of thinking about things?
Not even the full figure is captured; only a tiny flash off of half of the surface, soaked up onto the film. What about the inside? What about all the complex twists and turns that make up such a splendid anatomy? What about the shimmering, sparkling halo of the mind, barely within our science to grasp, let alone represent or imitate?
And then, what about the next moment? What about the infinite spectrum that this individual stretches through time? What about dinner that evening? What about children later in life? What about splashing through the ocean next year through a golden-vermillion sunset?
And then, it occurs to me; all of the feeling, the meaning found in art comes from connecting the dots: from filling in all the middle ground of a puzzle we are only given scant glimmers of -- the faintest, thinnest of motionless notes to fill the span of an eternal symphony. The image becomes the cup we fill with our own reflections... so, at this moment, my biggest question is: Why? Why seek out this familiar but thin representation of life rather than going out and living it?