On Art.

I think it is safe to say that there are two things that art and porn have in common. They can both be hard to define. It’s more a “you knows it when you sees it” kind of thing. The other commonality is that Skrivarn likes 'em both. There’s nothing like sharing a little art with a loved one. But, if push comes to shove, art can also be appreciated as a private endeavor.

In thinking about art, I often wonder if there is a line that demarcates where a dabbler ends and an artist begins. Was that an artist who brought home the perfectly proportioned stick figure, wide eyes looking for approval behind paper canvas? How far a gulf betwixt this and the practiced hand finding creative expression, reaching toward a chapel dome? Is there truly some genius that resides in the eye and hand, able to find escape for the perfectly formed David from his marble cage? Are these kin to the common man? Or, are they alien strangers, wandering amidst a great sea of banality? Methinks there is a spark, the exact abode, I cannot tell, that reaches beyond simple rearranging of the knick-knacks of life. There is an expulsion from human lips, which grants the seeds to inanimate form, bringing it to life. Not everyone has the fecund touch. There is much emptiness in the history of human endeavor. Many are those who play at life, but few who know to live it. Rare is the true new voice…a vision…and the ability to cast new shadows in the light of daily life.

I cannot write of something so universal without acknowledging that I simply opine. The subjectivity of the topic at hand refuses to be defined by one mere mind. I have, however, come to a few thoughts as to what I believe makes one an artist. Traits that, while describing a cornucopia of individuality, seem to be found in all who ply their artistic trade. I think that all who are artists are primarily exhibitionists. They seem unhindered by false modesty, and are willing to skip unheedingly through the market, unclothed, unbothered by the fact they display rebounding balls or undulating breast. They have the unabashed audacity to cry out, “See me now! Look! Feel! Hear! See what my hands have wrought!” A man is never more a god than when he performs that which he knows is approaching excellence. An artist is not apologetic. There is no need to be told of his greatness. He knows. It seems to me that one is doing art when busy doing the one thing they know they do well…the one arena where all systems are go. The one place where they are totally, and absolutely in no doubt that this is what they were meant to do. They are fish that have found their stream. Lucky is the one who has found such waters in which to plunge. An artist’s work energizes, rather than depletes. It gives life and strength.

An artist does not really solicit opinion. Sure, it’s nice to receive praise and accolades; but, there is no need to ask, “Do you think this is good”. If you are working in the proper forum, you know.

An artist is one who is in touch with an inner muse. The notes often seem to float from the instrument, with no conscious control or design. Have you ever heard words flow through your mouth, hearing them, for the first time, along with whoever else may be in audience? If so, you know exactly what I mean. There is genius, in the true sense of the word, at work.

I can only assume that there are many cases of unrealized potential; for the artist also knows the hours of toil that go into honing his or her craft. Much is the time spent with muted guitar, a page scrawled with undisciplined word and the agonizing fall of a dancer, yet to be. Hard work is the price to hear the siren call of possible success. Toil spent with no guarantee that you may turn out to be no more than a paint-by-number drawing hobbyist. Chance plays no part in brilliance; but it is most undeniably a large gamble. Just because you have felt your mind immersed in brilliant song does not mean you will necessarily a songbird be. But, without the chiseled practiced frame, made possible only by sweat, sinew and travail, the muse is fully without means. An instantaneous flash of brilliance will only follow the practice of hard discipline. The natural born can, indeed, become the stillborn.

Finally, the artist is practiced in the art of love. Each song is a whisper in the intended’s ear. Hands caress the clay or stone. Each visual delight an orgasm of color and hew. The artist exults as she performs her preferred dance. The audience invited to join in the intermingling of sensation. The back and forth rocking of inner being, birthing a new idea…a new way to see…a passing of the fire, igniting the imagination of a newly awakened artisan.

Now…where did I put those crayons?