The human must express itself. It is the natural imperative, every bit as encoded into our genome as reproduction; every bit as automatic as the nerve impulses that rule our respiration. The death of the soul is not from failure to follow superimposed social norms, but by the simple abandonment of the creative impulse or the appreciation thereof. Yet we lie to ourselves, and operantly condition these natural tendencies until they are mere muted reflections of an inner passion which must be free if we are to thrive.
The artist expresses as an act of creation...each project containing at once the same forethought and blind drive which brings two beings together for the culmination of lust, or which surely must have guided God's will in the moments before the first day. Creation is creation, and if we truly are created in the image of another, so too do we create in our own. This is our legacy.
The images we create, rather through word, in stone, or on canvas, or even in tone and timbre are our mortal attempts at breathing our interpretation of life into this world. To mold formless clay and firmament and infuse it with the spirit of our consciousness. These things we create are meant to be as living things, and to be appreciate by others who share our connectedness.
Some of us dedicate ourselves to these creations, giving bits of ourselves until naught enough remains to sustain our own selves. So we watch the rising and fading of the artist. Others create less, and appreciate more. We are the patrons, the lovers of art, the moved. We receive the parts the artist offers, like a parasite from its host, growing stronger through the life we consume.
Both have chosen to embrace the inanimate - the created. They walk as zombies through the multi-dimensional ether of inspiration, never stopping to see in the natural what they seek in the artificial. We demean those who take their pleasure in life, and admire those who gain it from dead matter, gain it from the shadows created to represent what already is.
How much more visceral a relationship to art could be had if we'd only embrace life itself, and all its acts and wonder, as the original art form. Is there a sentence ever written which bears the same impact and clarity of simple pillow talk after a beautiful joining? Does a sculpture exist which shares the softness of a woman's breast, or captures the immense security in a man's strong embrace? Has any painting held the myriad of color and inexplicable depth of a desert sunset? Can any song move you as much as the sudden lurching which accompanies the first time someone tells you they love you?
If we acknowledge that art is merely the created reflections of life, and if we accept our inherent need to admire the beautiful, why then do we continue to refuse to skip the intermediary and just worship life itself as art? We label the viewing of flesh as sinful, or perverted, but not so the brush strokes which emulate it. Hypocrisy I say, and no more. Embrace life, embrace beauty in its natural form. Don't abandon appreciation of creativity, but accept a living being as an artistic creation.
There is more adoration in a tender caress than in all the museums of the world. Acknowledging the beauty of another is not a means to an end, but a positive response to a vital act of creation. Sharing your love with others is infinitely more human than joining a book club to discuss descriptions of what we all wish we were doing anyway. Don't refuse to offer such appreciation just because the artificial construct of society seeks to repress truth and beauty.
As I watch the moon rise over the desert vista, and I watch the multitudes of humans who share my essence so totally parading in its glow - revealing as much of their own natural art as the law will grant them leave to, and I hear the laughter of love and rhythm of passion which permeates all in this town, I am thankful for being able to honestly admire the art of life itself. I will not be ashamed of my love of the human form, nor shirk the honest expression of that appreciation. What's my midnight wish? That every person will know appreciation for their own natural, inherent artistry.
The artist expresses as an act of creation...each project containing at once the same forethought and blind drive which brings two beings together for the culmination of lust, or which surely must have guided God's will in the moments before the first day. Creation is creation, and if we truly are created in the image of another, so too do we create in our own. This is our legacy.
The images we create, rather through word, in stone, or on canvas, or even in tone and timbre are our mortal attempts at breathing our interpretation of life into this world. To mold formless clay and firmament and infuse it with the spirit of our consciousness. These things we create are meant to be as living things, and to be appreciate by others who share our connectedness.
Some of us dedicate ourselves to these creations, giving bits of ourselves until naught enough remains to sustain our own selves. So we watch the rising and fading of the artist. Others create less, and appreciate more. We are the patrons, the lovers of art, the moved. We receive the parts the artist offers, like a parasite from its host, growing stronger through the life we consume.
Both have chosen to embrace the inanimate - the created. They walk as zombies through the multi-dimensional ether of inspiration, never stopping to see in the natural what they seek in the artificial. We demean those who take their pleasure in life, and admire those who gain it from dead matter, gain it from the shadows created to represent what already is.
How much more visceral a relationship to art could be had if we'd only embrace life itself, and all its acts and wonder, as the original art form. Is there a sentence ever written which bears the same impact and clarity of simple pillow talk after a beautiful joining? Does a sculpture exist which shares the softness of a woman's breast, or captures the immense security in a man's strong embrace? Has any painting held the myriad of color and inexplicable depth of a desert sunset? Can any song move you as much as the sudden lurching which accompanies the first time someone tells you they love you?
If we acknowledge that art is merely the created reflections of life, and if we accept our inherent need to admire the beautiful, why then do we continue to refuse to skip the intermediary and just worship life itself as art? We label the viewing of flesh as sinful, or perverted, but not so the brush strokes which emulate it. Hypocrisy I say, and no more. Embrace life, embrace beauty in its natural form. Don't abandon appreciation of creativity, but accept a living being as an artistic creation.
There is more adoration in a tender caress than in all the museums of the world. Acknowledging the beauty of another is not a means to an end, but a positive response to a vital act of creation. Sharing your love with others is infinitely more human than joining a book club to discuss descriptions of what we all wish we were doing anyway. Don't refuse to offer such appreciation just because the artificial construct of society seeks to repress truth and beauty.
As I watch the moon rise over the desert vista, and I watch the multitudes of humans who share my essence so totally parading in its glow - revealing as much of their own natural art as the law will grant them leave to, and I hear the laughter of love and rhythm of passion which permeates all in this town, I am thankful for being able to honestly admire the art of life itself. I will not be ashamed of my love of the human form, nor shirk the honest expression of that appreciation. What's my midnight wish? That every person will know appreciation for their own natural, inherent artistry.
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