From Coal to Diamond, to Coal...

[Vesnic]

I found this article after doing a somewhat fatalistic internet search in which I asked the iGods, "Is it still possible for this world to produce great art?" This gnawing feeling of missing-ness has taken quite a chunk out of my sides, and since I don't really want to go around half-eaten-cookie-shaped for the rest of my life, and because I seem to have a lack of mentors of the flesh-and-bone variety to see me through this sort of quandary, I held me breath and dove deep into the pit of everybodytalkingatoncefriendmepleaseandI'llcomment onyourblog.

Not a bad bit of work for one evening. I actually fished out a slippery seabass who burbled back just about the same words I had cast in. In his dorsal fin was a post by one Ryan Frawley from the blog "Thought Catalog" entitled "Being an Artist in the 21st Century".

I read it. I chewed it over. I spat it out. I responded. Signing in as "FrenchCookie", I joined my voice to the chorus. Added a bit of contrapuntal action to the works because until that point, the scene had been what Chubby might call "a circle jerk with 9 Frenchmen".

I thought it would be an interesting thing to share here, since in addition to supposedly being "a bunch of assholes" who revel in our own assholery, we're also sometimes inclined to put a few words to paper or to ponder this and that.

And now the obvious and unnecessary question, but just so you know this is an attempt at dialogue, not an exposition:

Whaddaya think?

[Locke]

I love Bukowski's story. His poetry is also good, and there's at least one really interesting documentary about him. Haven't read his novel. There's a quote that stuck with me, when he was talking about his father, and how he'd taught him something important that prepared him for life: "He taught me pain without reason." If you can sum up Bukowski in a sentence, that probably goes a long way. Hard life.

I assume the article went on to discuss other things. Hopefully I will get back to it when there's more time.

[Vesnic]

Hmmm...pain without reason.

Now I think THAT's the Quote of the Month!

[Locke]

I had this dream last night. I was in a house that felt like it had just been finished. There were two men talking there. I was watching, but I don't remember what they said, or what they looked like. My friend was with me. He said "oh, okay, let me show you the poem," like it was nothing special, and the two of us walked down a hallway that had been freshly painted, floor to ceiling, just wall to wall eye-searing beauty. The poem was in a closet in this guy's house. It had been painted onto the wall. The mural that covered the house kept going, until it formed the frame for the poem. There was candlelight. It was a shrine.

My friend began reading it out loud, and the most incredible music started playing. I can't remember what the poem said. It was something deeper than words. The camera slowly panned out and did the best cinematic I've ever seen over our faces, and I realized the dream had been a movie the whole time. The guy who was reading the poem didn't get it. But the other guy - the one who had been me - he was moved so powerfully he started crying, just these soul-wracking tears. He had realized he was in the presence of great art. That was the whole point of the movie. And the friend just stood there, and looked at the poem, and let him, and I thought maybe he'd understood, after all.

When I woke up, the following line occurred to me:

Art is not something I do. It's something I am.

Art is not what I do. It's what I am.


EDIT: If you're wondering why I deleted the last part, it's because it happened, but nobody will believe it. Men aren't supposed to write poetry, or have souls. Actual culture isn't supposed to exist in the open, unless it's been twisted to sell something or support some agenda, or its primary themes are sex, violence, and money. If you want culture, for some reason, you can't just talk about it. You have to go digging for it, and that's a sad fact, because anything that's of actual worth is supposed to be somehow embarrassing, and looked down on. Either that or you work half your life for it, like George R.R. Martin, in such a way that nobody can ignore you. Seemed like it was almost there, with the "Notes" app on Facebook - which I just discovered yesterday - but nobody seems to use that anymore for some reason. Maybe I'm looking in the wrong places.

I did kind of hijack your thread. I'm sorry about that. I felt like I ought to say something, and it was a natural follow-on from the "pain without reason" comment. I'll delete this after I come back from work and read the article.

[ChubbyTeletubby]

A fine hijacking, locke. But as ves said, this is an attempt at dialogue, not an expositon. As an avid dreamer and connoisseur of dreams of all sorts, I enjoyed your detailed account. Its good you did so - gave a detailed account. Dreams are the ultimate dust in the wind of the universe. Such a special place.

I'm on my phone right now, ves. I only read half the article. Will finish it first. I was gonna type some more rubbish but I can't stand doing this on my phone with my big manly thumbs.

[Vesnic]

Too late! No deleting here. You might not know it yet, if you haven't read the article, but your contribution was actually very germaine to the article, in the sense that it delved into the future of art in the modern world, and to one's ability to create something of culture that is understood and maybe even appreciated without first being either drowned or roundly ridiculed. So here's your post intact.

I'll have more to say here later too, but it's a somber holiday at the moment, so I'll be rejoining the conversation tomorrow maybe. In the meantime: discuss!

I had this dream last night. I was in a house that felt like it had just been finished. There were two men talking there. I was watching, but I don't remember what they said, or what they looked like. My friend was with me. He said "oh, okay, let me show you the poem," like it was nothing special, and the two of us walked down a hallway that had been freshly painted, floor to ceiling, just wall to wall eye-searing beauty. The poem was in a closet in this guy's house. It had been painted onto the wall. The mural that covered the house kept going, until it formed the frame for the poem. There was candlelight. It was a shrine.

My friend began reading it out loud, and the most incredible music started playing. I can't remember what the poem said. It was something deeper than words. The camera slowly panned out and did the best cinematic I've ever seen over our faces, and I realized the dream had been a movie the whole time. The guy who was reading the poem didn't get it. But the other guy - the one who had been me - he was moved so powerfully he started crying, just these soul-wracking tears. He had realized he was in the presence of great art. That was the whole point of the movie. And the friend just stood there, and looked at the poem, and let him, and I thought maybe he'd understood, after all.

When I woke up, the following line occurred to me:

Art is not something I do. It's something I am.

Art is not what I do. It's what I am.


EDIT: If you're wondering why I deleted the last part, it's because it happened, but nobody will believe it. Men aren't supposed to write poetry, or have souls. Actual culture isn't supposed to exist in the open, unless it's been twisted to sell something or support some agenda, or its primary themes are sex, violence, and money. If you want culture, for some reason, you can't just talk about it. You have to go digging for it, and that's a sad fact, because anything that's of actual worth is supposed to be somehow embarrassing, and looked down on. Either that or you work half your life for it, like George R.R. Martin, in such a way that nobody can ignore you. Seemed like it was almost there, with the "Notes" app on Facebook - which I just discovered yesterday - but nobody seems to use that anymore for some reason. Maybe I'm looking in the wrong places.

I did kind of hijack your thread. I'm sorry about that. I felt like I ought to say something, and it was a natural follow-on from the "pain without reason" comment. I'll delete this after I come back from work and read the article.

[Locke]

Damn, that's good. That last paragraph; you know it is.

Dead on my feet and can't digest it right now.