Wednesday, November 30, 2005
For nothing
As I continue making art, or being an artist, I feel a flow, like it is an extention of myself - almost a third arm.
For all the agony of rushing to complete something before a deadline, or the abysmal dread that is 'artists block', the gnawing self-doubt (against the urgency of people dying in the streets, what use is my multi-media installation?), there is the sweetness of opening night - an almost tangible taste on the tip of one's tongue, a heightened feeling quite unlike anything else I have ever known. To say nothing of the thrilling velocity when the making becomes thinking and the thinking becomes feeling and there is a momentary one-ness of words, action and thought.
I believe in an art for society, an art that contributes to life and to people. But in the making, sometimes I feel that this art has no message, no role, no expectation, no rules. Like love, there is only the moment of it, and the recognition that it is there in ourselves. And just like love, if you can, you hold it and you use it for every part of your life.
Not for identity politics, not to address issues, not for manifestoes, not for ideologies, not for weak social protest, not for biennales, not for anything.
For nothing.
For all the agony of rushing to complete something before a deadline, or the abysmal dread that is 'artists block', the gnawing self-doubt (against the urgency of people dying in the streets, what use is my multi-media installation?), there is the sweetness of opening night - an almost tangible taste on the tip of one's tongue, a heightened feeling quite unlike anything else I have ever known. To say nothing of the thrilling velocity when the making becomes thinking and the thinking becomes feeling and there is a momentary one-ness of words, action and thought.
I believe in an art for society, an art that contributes to life and to people. But in the making, sometimes I feel that this art has no message, no role, no expectation, no rules. Like love, there is only the moment of it, and the recognition that it is there in ourselves. And just like love, if you can, you hold it and you use it for every part of your life.
Not for identity politics, not to address issues, not for manifestoes, not for ideologies, not for weak social protest, not for biennales, not for anything.
For nothing.
Labels: art
¶ 3:59 PM
