ART MAN, ART.
What a glorious, exhausting,
torturous possibility of being. The creation of art through any medium requires
the artist to be brutally honest with himself. The creative impulse is innately
human, and as a product of humanity’s multitudinous perceptions, art is
subjective. The first meaning of art belongs to the artist before reveal
invites interpretation and comparison. One of the most beautiful things about
the creation and appreciation of art in our world is that art can’t be forced.
Art that is supposed to come into being comes organically, it happens because
it has to. Though some people are undoubtedly more “artistic”, I think we all
house creative inclination. We are all capable of being inspired, art is part
of a reverence for lived experience.
As an
artist, I work in words. Driven by an aching, giddy nostalgia, Writing poetry
has been a very deep and honest way of understanding myself and how I relate to
the world. I avoid writing when I can’t
stand the prospect of such clarity of thought and emotion. I don’t create nearly as much as I would like
to. I appreciate what I’ve written as a literary timeline marking the highs and
lows of my life thus far. I would love to ban the writer’s block and emotional
inhibition, release the words suppressed by the “grind”, the necessary
monotonous bits of life.
The power of art as a thing comes
from the emotion that it evokes, rather than whatever form or shape it might
exist in. Art is ever-living, gifts of pain or bliss or fear bestowed by past
generations.
