Art is ever present, objective, impossible, and simple. I have never thought of myself as an “artist”. “Artist” is a term that I avoid because it carries a certain connotation of unattainability, it implies immense toil for an outcome, (the work) that may not be well-received or respected. “Artist” is a title earned through suffering. A war medal.
Sometimes, though, I have an uncontrollable urge to create. For this, I am a regretful artist; a creator, if you will. Like that song by Santogold. Every artist has a muse, and I am often struck by something that I find incredibly sad or unusually gorgeous. It can happen anywhere, at any time, I might feel like I’m struck on the head by something, and I need to write. My craft, I would say, is poetry. It’s usually fragments that I keep in several notebooks, or in TextEdit on my computer.
My art is intensely personal, I find creation quite therapeutic. I suppose I would call myself a selfish artist. I have always felt that there is so much beauty in the world, and that people are basically good, at the root of everything, under all of the rough. My first muse was Anne Frank. I read The Diary of A Young Girl when I was 12, and her eloquence and positivity in the face of such circumstance intrigued and inspired me. The beauty that poured out of her and onto the pages of her checkered-cloth diary made me want to write. In this way, Anne Frank, forever stunted in childhood, is like my sister in artistic influence.
(unfinished)
artist statement for medp150
9/2011
No comments:
Post a Comment