Nanyang Festival of Arts '11
The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.
The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.
Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.
There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.
The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.
The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium.
No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.
Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type. All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.
Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself. We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.
All art is quite useless.
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The Picture of Dorian Gray
Preface
Oscar Wilde
This is a boring and mundane post with me complaining and bemoaning the existence of the Festival of Arts and what a pain it is, and also what I feel about it in general. I have a lot of feelings. And a lot of stress. And a quiz. And a new livejournal post. No one rolls like I do.
Basically, FOA's going to be a complete bore because we're playing our SYF pieces and I absolutely detest those, I've played them more than enough, thank you very much.
I've also been under such stress lately that I've become a ton more hypocritical lately, also a lot easier to be ticked off. I have also, it seems, lost all sense of rationality and all my common sense which I am usually so proud of has disappeared in the blink of an eye.
Despite the endless time wasted though, it's actually been quite fun watching all the activities being put up. Pity that the performing arts groups are the last to appreciate these though.
Mr. Mike Chang's started his own personal green earth project, in which he carries his trash that he's created in a transparent tote bag. Unfortunately though, I am unable to participate due to my mother. Yes, she is a huge contributing factor to such things. The blog where everything in the project will be documented is
The twitter is @mikehjchang. It's quite interesting, I recommend it.
If I start being hypocritical, I know this, let me have my minute. Or alternatively, please attempt to stop me before I get too extreme.
Posted via LiveJournal.app.