Alternative DC Currents of Strength! Absolute Monarchy of Shut The Hell Up!!!!!!!!
Today I took off work about an hour early and caught a bus to campus where I attended the art program's Open Studios Day, which happens once per quarter. Usually its just the same old shit, photo students taking pictures of their friends on couches as if their commitment to their craft was the same as my commitment to literature, 'let's just see how this works out if I don't care about it but jump into it nonetheless'. You know, point the camera, point the canvas let what happens happens and if art happens well, then, great. Same as my -point the fingers in Microsoft Word, read to page thirty-, great.
But today I went to Open Studios, of course as usual not expecting anything, a few topless photos here and there, maybe a few goofy sculptures, but I walked away a conflicted man. I'm not going to get specific here because my ability to describe art in a concrete way is about as good as a cat's ability to log onto the internet; if it happens, it happens as a cute accident. But what I witnessed was some ridiculous quantum leap in terms of this artist's artistic achievement, some 'good to see you!' kind of homecoming that one hopes for in old friends but usually can never connect with, especially in the realm of one's work. In this case I had seen each piece before, but never in this context.
So I find the room that the 'painting' is supposed to be in and sure enough there's plenty of paintings, people's attempt at capturing the same unimaginative shit as the photo classes, 'hey, lets find my friends on the couch, brush-to-pallette-to-afterschool-hours-and how much of a pinnacle of human achievement are they? do they become? so much!!', you know colors and "Style" and all of the normal deviations from the standard white-on-white, basically RUBBISH and anybody could do this with a few lessons on perspective and color wheels. But the collection in question was a bolt out of the blue, not even in the same medium as the other standard nothing-on-canvas.
I observed this piece (God, how I hate people that "observe" "pieces", the "piece" right next door being some Che Guevara homage or some uselessness) for maybe half an hour, taking distance to watch others watch her art, and who cares what they think, the important thing is that I have something to talk about next time anybody asks.
It was some sort of sum of self-criticism and that's the craft that we should all be closest to, because what is BEING but being hopefully better the next time you try and what is _TRYING_ but the collective effort towards failing and for the recognition of that to be the cause for to be better the next time, suggests that nothing can become of art but the attempt towards art.
Now here I have to admit my bias. I have been closest friends with Vanessa Waring for about four years and continuing. But this does not change the fact that we are both highly intraverted individuals who could give a fuck about anybody else (of course there's exceptions) as long as we are constantly checking up with ourselves about ourselves, you know, talking out the daily routine, journaling, obsessing over dreams; because you know that dreams are the most important thing that happens in your life.
My biggest fear is that some artist that I see in everyday life: be it photo, music, painting, dance, whateverthehell, is going to best me. And today I walked about five or six miles or the rest of the night up until now after realising that yeah, Vanessa, you have bested me and I'm so thrilled for you.