Am I becoming one of them?
Thoughts on art, life, understanding. Said to my mom, why make art? She responds, because you have to. Is that a valid answer? Is it a cop-out? Is it the truth? Does truth exist? Is there a way to get through an art degree without my thinking becoming unbearably recondite?
Discussion in meeting today -- art can never replicate life in a way that improves it, so what is the point? If it seeks to represent the natural world, it will always be a failure. My silent response -- it is not a replication, it is not a representation, it is a way of understanding, a way of wresting meaning. This is why art and science go together so naturally. While the rest of the world works to perpetuate commerce, the artists and scientists are stuck on the questions of meaning. Why, why why? Can't be bothered devoting our lives to making money, to carving a little place for ourselves within the system we're indoctrinated into. Must step outside the system, or slightly to the side of it, and ask, WHY? Why is the system the way it is? Why buy into it... or more importantly, how do we opt out of it?
Thinking about sex... Bukowski wrote about being obsessed with women's legs, because of this idea that maybe there was something more amazing hiding at the place where they meet, maybe all the answers to life's great mysteries were there... but always in the end disappointed by another drunken fuck, another cunt the same as all the others. No mysteries, no surprise. But I say, hold on there Buck. All of life's mysteries are contained within that moist space, the salvation of man exists in that (dis)passionate act, the answers you seek lay within that cunt you were so disappointed to find instead of hidden jewels. Creation, regeneration, reincarnation, everlasting life. We fuck so we won't ever die.
It's Halloween. I've got squirrels to draw.
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