About 'art' yet again
4:29am. The thought for tonight:
[I'll be recycling some now, you may have heard that before, sorry.]
I fucking hate the presumption of intellect and brainpower in art/ for art.
It’s like a book I’m not interested in because it doesn’t evoke any feeling, but tries to tell my head something instead. For me art that only works like that, but does not appeal to me on an instinctual level, through my guts, through my skin, hitting me right in the stomach… it just doesn’t appeal to me.
It’s vain. What does it see in itself? What did those old poets and - no leave out the poets, this is not about them per se - what did those painters think of themselves? Why so highly? Good God, they’re tedious.
I don’t think this makes me some mindless brute, to value emotion and life and the will to discover and hold it over the sometimes so snobistic intellect of the mind only that produces images that seem so often - flat fairytales.
And art must also be life for fuck's sake. It begins in life and it must be understood there.
Clean and pretty and perfect. That holds the eye. For how long? Thus, there must be intellect. I just don't like them enough to think about them in more depth. I think 'oh pretty'. And that's it. The romance often feels pathetic.
I liked them at 16, I can’t love them today.
But God, who am I to say that? Not being an artist myself I'm not at all qualified. Times change, the perception of art changes with them. What was is not what is and ten years from now we'll be looking at something else entirely. Tastes differ.
Ha, bear with me if I make no sense, I just walked past some poster for an exhibition on my way home, and I’m on medication and had a couple of beers. Something my company said infuriated me horribly. I won’t step back from my opinion though.
[I'll be recycling some now, you may have heard that before, sorry.]
I fucking hate the presumption of intellect and brainpower in art/ for art.
It’s like a book I’m not interested in because it doesn’t evoke any feeling, but tries to tell my head something instead. For me art that only works like that, but does not appeal to me on an instinctual level, through my guts, through my skin, hitting me right in the stomach… it just doesn’t appeal to me.
It’s vain. What does it see in itself? What did those old poets and - no leave out the poets, this is not about them per se - what did those painters think of themselves? Why so highly? Good God, they’re tedious.
I don’t think this makes me some mindless brute, to value emotion and life and the will to discover and hold it over the sometimes so snobistic intellect of the mind only that produces images that seem so often - flat fairytales.
And art must also be life for fuck's sake. It begins in life and it must be understood there.
Clean and pretty and perfect. That holds the eye. For how long? Thus, there must be intellect. I just don't like them enough to think about them in more depth. I think 'oh pretty'. And that's it. The romance often feels pathetic.
I liked them at 16, I can’t love them today.
But God, who am I to say that? Not being an artist myself I'm not at all qualified. Times change, the perception of art changes with them. What was is not what is and ten years from now we'll be looking at something else entirely. Tastes differ.
Ha, bear with me if I make no sense, I just walked past some poster for an exhibition on my way home, and I’m on medication and had a couple of beers. Something my company said infuriated me horribly. I won’t step back from my opinion though.