This is an entry taken from my private journal. I was recalling a conversation with a friend who, not too long ago, engaged me in a talk on objectification which segued into artistic philosophy; my favorite topic. Later that night I jotted down a few notes with the intent on revisiting these ideas, became distracted by my easel and subsequently forgot all about it.
Recently, I came across said notes which sparked the following line of thought:
I am confounded, daily, by the ebb and flow of tangible practicality and the ether of possibility. There is a nagging sense of being lost; adrift in numeric calculations, historical palindromes and the crudely rendered abominations of humanity that incessantly clang about in my peripheral thinking, humming. There is a tether of will and determination anchored just behind my eyes that holds fast my concept of reality. This is how I hide: how I can foolishly plow through my seemingly non-sequential days without screaming.
Is this Zen?
When I paint, this tether unspools, releasing me into the smothering embrace of creative methodology. Christians, Jews, Muslims, even Atheists, filling their emptiness with self validating subjugation, are sadly off point. This is god.This is what life is.
In the name of the line, the pigment; the wholly mad muse, I am born again: baptized in tangent thinking and mediums and subjectivity. As awareness in this rebirth deepens, it becomes increasingly difficult to perpetuate the falseness of a linear existence. Instead, my attention is diverted to the unseen and the unheard which, in turn, leaves me vulnerable and bare; a conduit of unfiltered perception.
Socially, it is believed that one should not objectify another. Obviously, I agree that no one should be treated like an inanimate object however, as an artist; objectification is a vital skill to be mastered. Without it, it is impossible to correctly manifest an honest artistic interpretation.
Everywhere I look, everything I see, comes with a detailed schematic outlining the every day. I am constantly aware of Vanishing Points, geometric patterns and the color of light. When I meet someone, I do not see a person called “John” or “Mary;” I see planes and angles, calligraphic lines and subtle variations in hue that represent “John” or “Mary.” When I’m working, this is a useful tic. Unfortunately, it’s not something I can turn on or off. Making eye contact can therefore be problematic, especially when I am horribly and vividly aware of so many origins and insertions and joints and tendons and movements and processes…
If I had to draw a summation of my life’s work thus far, I’d have to say it’s been an illustrated depiction of a troubled mind stumbling about in the dark: desperate for light.
In light there is art and in art I trust.