Today I painted.
Sigh.
I feel better.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
From "walking on water: reflections on faith and art" by Madeleine L'Engle
"I was outraged a number of years ago to read a book by an eminent Freudian analyst whose theory was that all artists are neurotic, psychotic, sado/masochists, Peeping Toms; that not one is normal.
At this moment I do not know why it bothered me so. He means one thing by his labels; I would call it something quite different; but there is no denying that the artist is someone who discovers rainbow answers in the darkness, and then rushes to canvas or paper. An artist is someone who cannot rest, who can never rest as long as there is one suffering creature in this world. Along with Plato's divine madness there is also divine discontent., a longing to find the melody in the discords of chaos, the rhyme in the cacophony, the surprised smile in time of stress or strain.
It is not that what is is not enough for it is; it is that what is had been disarranged, and is crying out to be put in place. Perhaps the artist longs to sleep well every night, to eat anything without indigestion; to feel no moral qualms: to turn off the television news and make a bologna sandwich after seeing the devastation and death caused by famine and draught and earthquake and flood. But the artist cannot manage this normalcy. Vision keeps breaking through, and must find means of expression."
Rather pertinent to what I was just talking about, I hope I can be that kind of artist.
At this moment I do not know why it bothered me so. He means one thing by his labels; I would call it something quite different; but there is no denying that the artist is someone who discovers rainbow answers in the darkness, and then rushes to canvas or paper. An artist is someone who cannot rest, who can never rest as long as there is one suffering creature in this world. Along with Plato's divine madness there is also divine discontent., a longing to find the melody in the discords of chaos, the rhyme in the cacophony, the surprised smile in time of stress or strain.
It is not that what is is not enough for it is; it is that what is had been disarranged, and is crying out to be put in place. Perhaps the artist longs to sleep well every night, to eat anything without indigestion; to feel no moral qualms: to turn off the television news and make a bologna sandwich after seeing the devastation and death caused by famine and draught and earthquake and flood. But the artist cannot manage this normalcy. Vision keeps breaking through, and must find means of expression."
Rather pertinent to what I was just talking about, I hope I can be that kind of artist.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Because the dog ate my camera cord
Actual ramblings, no pictures because the dog really did eat my camera cord and therefore I cannot download anything.
I could blame the recent shortage primarily on the dog but it would be slightly untrue because nothing is finished. Is anything ever finished?
Fransisco De Goya left this world having finished more than 700 paintings, not to mention the 1000 drawings and 300 prints. Think of the things he scraped, the art that didn't survive. He's 14 when he starts studying under Jose Luzan and he paints for 68 years. Incredible, to have that much time at one pursuit. Incredible.
When Henri Matisse was sentenced to a wheel chair, essentially bed ridden for the rest of his life, he transformed a medium by "painting with scissors." He turned a fad into a fine art form and this was after he'd already made a name for himself.
The arts has no shortage of crazy, most lives seem to be riddled with depression and tragedy but I admire them, in some aspects at least. There are few of us that have so much fortitude so deep a desire and drive to move forward, day after day at the same thing. So much courage to fall in love, with the world, with work. Maybe I'm not afraid to be passionate, I admire passion. (I would limit the "few" to my courageous friends and bold family, passion and commitment is alive and well there)
What about the plenitude of artists out there now, what are they saying, and what are they doing? There are so many. Is there anything left for them, is there anything left for me? Does it matter? The answer is no, because it's actually time to get on with it. To commit, to be passionate, to be in love. I wouldn't mind going crazy if it meant I had that kind of commitment. And I know a little about crazy.
Don't worry about replying, anybody, I'm breaking my rules anyway, I try not to write personal things on the Internet. These are just some cosmic ramblings sent out into the chaos with the click of a button.
On second thought maybe I'll go be a nun :)
I could blame the recent shortage primarily on the dog but it would be slightly untrue because nothing is finished. Is anything ever finished?
Fransisco De Goya left this world having finished more than 700 paintings, not to mention the 1000 drawings and 300 prints. Think of the things he scraped, the art that didn't survive. He's 14 when he starts studying under Jose Luzan and he paints for 68 years. Incredible, to have that much time at one pursuit. Incredible.
When Henri Matisse was sentenced to a wheel chair, essentially bed ridden for the rest of his life, he transformed a medium by "painting with scissors." He turned a fad into a fine art form and this was after he'd already made a name for himself.
The arts has no shortage of crazy, most lives seem to be riddled with depression and tragedy but I admire them, in some aspects at least. There are few of us that have so much fortitude so deep a desire and drive to move forward, day after day at the same thing. So much courage to fall in love, with the world, with work. Maybe I'm not afraid to be passionate, I admire passion. (I would limit the "few" to my courageous friends and bold family, passion and commitment is alive and well there)
What about the plenitude of artists out there now, what are they saying, and what are they doing? There are so many. Is there anything left for them, is there anything left for me? Does it matter? The answer is no, because it's actually time to get on with it. To commit, to be passionate, to be in love. I wouldn't mind going crazy if it meant I had that kind of commitment. And I know a little about crazy.
Don't worry about replying, anybody, I'm breaking my rules anyway, I try not to write personal things on the Internet. These are just some cosmic ramblings sent out into the chaos with the click of a button.
On second thought maybe I'll go be a nun :)
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