Tag Archives: artist

Listening Room

My recent tracks, top-listened artists and genres, as generated from Last.fm

3,181 Artists in total My Music Library

CosmicEsperanto's Profile Page

Advertisements

Think of all the ascorbic acid you eat in a day!

As symbols, every picture and for that matter, any word, implies a previous and/or a following action. Many times the implications are very simple; a man on a door implies ‘Men’s room.’ Other times, an object in space has much more to ‘say’ concerning its role in society, well-known history, common usage, double entendres, mental closure, function, usual ties to other objects, and context. The more complicated the pictures and words, the more that can be extrapolated from the ‘part-of-the-whole.’ A drawing’s shading implies the location and prominence of lights in a room, just as resonant audio would imply its size. A drawing’s lack of shading may have been an intent of the artist to emphasize a contoured iconographic style, perhaps. By showing a large portion of the whole, the artist makes a very different statement than by showing a focused one. This can even be the moment for a juxtaposition, wherein what is acceptable or even mentally expected is then replaces by its polar opposite, or a non-sequitur, some wholly unexpected thing. This opens up all forms of comedy, socio-political satire, and intense visual stimulation. The suddenly clever thing to do is then to reveal several meanings at once to the audience. Perhaps the meaning is intentional (and the level of this that the author reveals is discretionary), or perhaps too much is read into coincidence, but even this becomes part of its philosophy. If meaning can be ascribed an object, and is internalized by the viewer, then it does contain validity. Indeed, the unintentional mental connections made between otherwise arbitrary elements is what makes enjoying art possible

The audience then, as the only arbiter of his/her own reality, is the true artist. At the final moment in art’s production, which must culminate in audienceship (even if only by the author’s review of it), the artist’s intention is inevitably cast aside in favor of the newer relevant present that the viewer brings to the object. Many artists (or fans of the artists, or critics, for that matter) would stay attached to the original meaning. However, no author would or could have involved every possible interpretation in the creation of the piece, no matter how clever or foresighted. True art lies in subtlety, a craftsmanship in ambiguity, in understanding that the artistic process does terminate in the necessary witness by a viewer, an thus their roles irrevocably linked despite any passage of time.

DELUSIONAL PEOPLE

Faber- to fabricate, to lie, thus, ‘art is a lie!’

Modern art embraces everything, and it should, as each new generation has that many new sources of inspiration to draw from, the only new ideas are the combinations and retoolings of older, (arguably better) ‘original’ ideas. Whenever I come up with a great new idea, it appears someone else has already done it; Woody Allen, Mel Brooks, any countless number of other brilliant jews. This is the only decent argument for anarchy. We ought to just tear everything down and start from scratch.

Ideas and philosophy multiply exponentially upon themselves, building blocks like LEGOs towards an ultimate good, or perhaps mucking up the process with overt confusion. I can’t create unless I immerse myself in new ideas and company, I get depressed when I’m not fulfilling some act of creation, when my body gets depressed it makes itself fall in love, when I’m hopelessly in love the only cure is art.

As it embraces everything, is doesn’t have to be picky, it has arms open wide to receive it all, but perhaps it CANNOT decide, and is just artistic nonsense. The ravings of madmen in the street at streetlight poles begin to make perfect sense to me.

If someone labels their memoirs ‘The Rantings of a Crazy Person’ chances are they are not a crazy person. If they label their memoirs ‘The New Gospel of the Reborn Jesus Christ as Told to me by my Housecat,” then they may be a pretty good candidate. But even I attribute animism to inanimate household objects, a silly childhood holdover. My class ring, like all class rings, for example, had a singular purpose in its life; to get itself lost. My toilet cannot flush without my approval. Whereas most people need only to pull the flush lever, I must be watching my toilet as it does this, nodding and smiling satisfactorily, beaming proudly as if no other toilet could fulfill this function as well as mine.

Delusional people (artists of reality), confuse their internal and external spaces, in some degree incapable of delineating between the two. Their dreamrealm is our realm, and they will as readily interact with a wall as they would with the policeman on the corner, and “sane” people like you or I would rather interact with neither. We tell ourselves that hard-line constancy is better than our mental illusions, a good use of our perceptional condition than being tricked. But we are all tricked on a daily basis, by our biased minds, our faulty eyes, and the society, fellow humans and world in which we live.


This is Rodin’s ‘The Thinker’ It raises many important and pivotal questions about art as we know it, ‘what is the thinker thinking of?’ ‘is the sitting position the best position for thinking?’ perhaps he’s thinking that ‘I could be thinking a whole lot better if I put on my damned thinking pants.’


This is Rodan. He thinks of nothing but destruction.

The artist is a clown, a poet, an imitator, a monkey, a philosopher, a sociologist, a socialist, a satirist, a fabricator, a creator, and first and foremost a liar.

Constructing his or her own reality for entertainment, aesthetic or philosophical purposes (and let’s not forget the payouts), is the honest intention of dishonesty what separates them from the camps of confidence-artists and the camps of schizophrenics?

A few more thoughts related to this subject, and then I must return to the comfort of my dreamtime, whose sophistry I know to be authentic and internally consistent:
Early cultures and shaman were much more responsive to the archetypical ‘stranger’ as a bringer of both dramatic good and evil foreboding. Regardless, his news was often accepted as gospel by the characters time and time again, even in those stories where the moral was that some trickster is playing with your worldview to ill ends. We love a good mystery, and solving it sometimes takes a backseat to never solving it. Some humans skip to the end of the enjoyable book to read the reveal first, others join major world religions. An old Native American belief was that ‘evil is the truth that is not meant to be known.’

And finally, this:
Does telling a fictional story make it more true than if it were never told at all?

Stop the train and let me off!

Every day of my life as long as I can remember, I have pictured myself as a hundred other things besides a man; a superman, a sea turtle, a bird, an ape, a demigod, a snail, a plastic bag, a volcano.

I fantasize that God or some other space alien will lift me up and unify me with the energy of the cosmos, or else smash me into an unrecognizable paste with their giant fist-from-the-sky. Either way, I wouldn’t have to deal with the minutiae.

I wish that I had never learned what wishing was. No I don’t. Yes I do.

But an immortal man would have no more chance of understanding the world or himself than a stillborn baby. So here’s to equality.

I asked an old man once, while helping him fill out an online application, what I should put down for his skills and whatnot. He replied with clear pronunciation, “Well sir, I am what you would call, ‘a lazy man.'” Even though I hated him, I wish everyone would be as honest as him, and by that I mean I wish everyone would say exactly what he did.

People suck. Mostly the white ones. There’s not enough hatred against whites, if you ask me. But its not as if anybody will do anything about it. The winning teams were decided long ago.

The difference between luck and chance is the letters that are used, and thus, their placement in the dictionary.

The difference between success and banality is the same distance between a supermarket and a natural history museum.

You’re born, you live, you die. Like the frothing effervescent sea foam of a pounding rushing wave, which exists but an instant, only to be replaced later by a near facsimile. It’s silly to want to do anything else but that, or even complain about the circumstances in-between. It makes for very predictable literature, or a very boring board game.

There’s a reason there that the heavy waves of the ocean are considered revitalizing and new to the fragile human spirit. Doesn’t anybody else wonder and worry about the fact that a body can trouble themselves over the supernatural (sometimes egregious) effects of a rainstorm one day, and smile at the uplifting stupor of a full rainbow the next?

A lot of people have no regard for ‘tomorrow’. They seem foolish because a storm could wipe out their home the same day they lose their job. Those people who have great consideration for ‘tomorrow’ wisely organize their piles into geometric stacks that will one day be the forgotten detritus of a long-extinct smoking cinder.

Everywhere are roots sticking out of the ground, and throngs of immobile people, and fences, and ‘No Trespassing’ signs, and public transportation, and little spiky balls of vegetable matter stuck in your footwear. But the reality is you can’t escape your own skull, the contents of which conspire against you far more than any other real or imagined forces of the universe.

I used to laugh at people with ridiculous phobias, as I am not afraid of clowns, or needles, or spiders, or dentists, or dogs, or what other relatively harmless things my friends are. That is, until I realized that I am afraid of perhaps that most fantastic and intangible construction of human evolution: falling in love.

I don’t believe I could take the time to get to know somebody as well as I know myself. I don’t know myself all that well.

Some people take drugs to stop them from thinking so much. Others take drugs so that they’ll think even harder. Society is a drug that does both simultaneously.

I can feel my thoughts and opinions and beliefs and wishes and aspirations and dreams sloshing around in my brain. I feel their weight. As though tilting my head back and forth would let them ooze warmly from my inner ear canal with a loud ‘POP’ and puddle into a pillow cover which I would then throw away and forget about.

When I try to force myself to think, I get sleepy. When I try to stop myself thinking, I get a headache. Either way I need to lie down.

If I ever do get depressed, it seems to be during those transcendental moments of beauty that defy all attempts at description. I involuntarily enter a trance-state as if in some drunken mind-frame, but wholly different from any drug. Thoughts overtake me, in what should be a happy or religious experience, but somehow induced from another place, like spoken in tongues, or finding something you thought you threw away long ago, or suddenly realizing you’re at the place you were supposed to be, but you don’t feel at all the way you anticipated. Disoriented, thinking of your position to the world all wrong once confronted by its image, then inexplicably angry at nobody. What an odd coincidence.

I’m grateful for plenty of things, but perpetually devoid of any ideas on how to express it appropriately.

If I ran away from ‘it all’ and changed my name or stole somebody’s, sure, the scenery might be better, but there would still be all the bullshit. It smells the same everywhere.

My most foolish fantasy has never been contemplating suicide. That is, I never think about it seriously enough to be considered ‘contemplation.’ Certainly not more than the average person, I suppose. Just as every heterosexual has the stray homosexual thought, but with such infrequency and frivolity that one can’t seriously self-identify as gay, let alone act upon it. So when somebody steps in front of oncoming traffic to end their life, it astounds me that they would want to reduce all the petty problems in their life into one massive immediate one. Though, to their credit, if they are killed they can’t be said to have any problems at all. But I always think, ‘if they aren’t killed, just seriously injured, they’ve increased their share of problems to work with tenfold.’ No. My most foolish fantasy is that I imagine stepping into oncoming traffic, surviving, and being somebody else’s problem. Maybe somebody attractive.

But I’m not depressed or tortured. That would be just another excuse to disrupt a disturbing train of thought, and I think its best to see the train to its destination, no matter how annoying. The trains are never on time, always end up at the wrong place with the wrong passengers aboard, with squealing wheels sparking against steel at an uncontrollable rate of speed, the driver having jumped off long ago. So far, there’s been no crash, but that’s almost worse.

No artist is tortured any more than any other thinking individual. Torture is what religion and the CIA perpetrate upon dissidents, or what some fetishists do for loads of money. But I repeat myself.

I don’t know what’s more upsetting, that the universe doesn’t care what I do, or that I don’t.

Not that I really have any problems or complaints, mind you. Just the typical ones that we all have, from the starving third-world villager to the multi-billionaire CEO. Wait. Scratch that.

It troubles me very deeply and very often that I am just like everybody else on the planet, and nobody is just like me.