(Best viewed in Internet Explorer)
Risk-taking in art often leads to misinterpretations, and just as often it can lead to revealing your disgusting primordial self. Unraveling your flaws, your cross looks at ourselves that you don't want others to see. Hitting yourself against everything you've learned consciously or not. Questioning everything about who you are and what you've done to yourself and others.
The fear of the artist is twofold - that he will be misunderstood, or maybe worse - that he will be seen.
At this point in my life, I'm quite certain that I always error on the side of hiding myself. I live within metaphors, which is beautiful and abstract. Metaphors lie in the realm of Apollo. Chariots flying in the sun, shielding our eyes from the pain.
The tragic nature of everything, consistently drowned in our dreamscape post-modernity. I ought to feel my wretchedness more, instead of writing about it. But I feel the most when I write - when I pivot around the feelings welling in my stomach and exploding up my chest. I try to give it words, to give it life that otherwise would corrosively contaminate my body.
So I love my writing, I have to do it. But I have little faith in it. I can only believe that I write for myself, and that others may like it because it hits something within their being as well. I've never tried to publish my poetry because the leap of commitment goes well beyond myself at that point - I'll have responsibilities.
Sartre and Camus always wrote of commitment. I agree that we must live with a conviction of commitment toward life. But, as of now, the best I can do is commit to myself without an idea in the world of what anything I'm doing is heading toward. I ride the edge of being alone and loneliness, but at times I sort of embrace loneliness.
And somehow, despite all of this, I still feel so vulnerable with all of my writing and it is all I can do to hit "post" each time I finish writing each entry. And for every entry I post, there are probably 3-4 that are left unfinished or deleted entirely. Perhaps that is the biggest indicator of my vulnerability.
So, with a sigh and a look toward the future.
Post.
The fear of the artist is twofold - that he will be misunderstood, or maybe worse - that he will be seen.
At this point in my life, I'm quite certain that I always error on the side of hiding myself. I live within metaphors, which is beautiful and abstract. Metaphors lie in the realm of Apollo. Chariots flying in the sun, shielding our eyes from the pain.
The tragic nature of everything, consistently drowned in our dreamscape post-modernity. I ought to feel my wretchedness more, instead of writing about it. But I feel the most when I write - when I pivot around the feelings welling in my stomach and exploding up my chest. I try to give it words, to give it life that otherwise would corrosively contaminate my body.
So I love my writing, I have to do it. But I have little faith in it. I can only believe that I write for myself, and that others may like it because it hits something within their being as well. I've never tried to publish my poetry because the leap of commitment goes well beyond myself at that point - I'll have responsibilities.
Sartre and Camus always wrote of commitment. I agree that we must live with a conviction of commitment toward life. But, as of now, the best I can do is commit to myself without an idea in the world of what anything I'm doing is heading toward. I ride the edge of being alone and loneliness, but at times I sort of embrace loneliness.
And somehow, despite all of this, I still feel so vulnerable with all of my writing and it is all I can do to hit "post" each time I finish writing each entry. And for every entry I post, there are probably 3-4 that are left unfinished or deleted entirely. Perhaps that is the biggest indicator of my vulnerability.
So, with a sigh and a look toward the future.
Post.
posted by Will at 1:33 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home