Art: The Artist As You

 

Art is the extension of the artist, art is for art's sake, it requires no one's approval but the person who made it; that is its beauty. If ever a 'propose' existed for it, it would be for the ventilation of the soul of man so as the further the expression of his inner experiences to the outer world so that others could but have a glimpse into the tactile feeling of his inner landscape. This would be the closest thing one could argue of the concept of art as having anything close to a 'value' of any sort. What does it say? What is the art commenting on? What inner struggle does the artist wrestle with so as to excrete such fantastical expressions of the soul? I must say that if an artist's work seems divest of such things, if it be but a rancid crock of exploitation of the color pallet of creativity, I would hesitate to call them artistic at all; rather a molester of the dreamscape of man.

Poetry, one such example, speaks of the inmost depths of the poet, tis why poetry is so hard a genera to enjoy; most of the time. As one must find connection, in some way, with the poet through the poem; and oft one finds no connection at all. Yet, every so often one reads a yearning well understood, a glimpse of similarity sublime, and we enjoy, briefly, that unique moment of comradeship that so rarely shimmers midst minds. I can say, though perhaps should not, that I often do not enjoy poetry; as more often than not I find no kinship with the multitude I've encountered. But every so often I can take joy, however momentary, in the poetics of others; most defiantly when the emotive painting seems most complete. I often wonder though, why is it that sorrow, regret and pain are so vivid and powerful in poetry, but joy so ephemeral and elusive in its tactile presence; nearly unable to be pinned down by descriptors at all. Sorrow is one of the great motivators of many artists, in fact it seems to be one of the primary ones. Whatever creates the spark is the fuel one uses to pour forth one's soul.

This is the conundrum of the mind, of the artist and the thinker, why must art come forth? This seems a powerful question of unanswerable proportions. For the artist seems always to feel a stirring within and a morbid desire to birth more and more misshapen children out upon this world. The artist, one worth their salt, cares not for the desires of those without him, rather expresses and releases forth the mess of inner demons out upon the earth for all to see and feel; for many feel little without a ethereal claw scraping their inmost places through artistic experience.

And this is the beauty of art, that its diversity should ring forth in a hundred ways, individual strumming and humming, strings singing midst trumpets and drums banging with voices; echoing round about in a whirlpool of expression the likes of which should only be eclipsed by the plethora awaiting but one sea over. One should never want for art, it should ever exist, for someone somewhere must be making what you're searching for; that special feeling of solidarity that only an artist can grant. Not the solidarity of love, but something much deeper, that feeling of connection right down to the deepest regions of the core of your being, that place that only you can go, that inner sanctum that not even the greatest touch of compassion can grant; the place where artists play your heartstrings and where you are at the mercy of yourself.