The Truest Form of Art

The ascetic life is appealing to me. As a person who is constantly confounded by life’s daily rituals, to live simply and to have a constant single-tracked routine is one that I dream of. To avoid the mistake of painting myself into a corner of life.

As I come into myself late into the evenings, where the waters of my brain are still enough to see though, I am forced to come face to face with ancient frustrations. Ones that have stared into the depths of humanity ever since the awareness of mortality breached the shores of the psyche.

It is hard to not be fearful when that piercing glare reaches through us past our skin, almost threatening the fabric of our very being. This glare questions everything, including the validity of our work, its purpose, while trying to stay afloat as the waters of our own despair rise. Are we powerless to stop it?

What is art? Can art be birthed into a mental landscape such as mine? A person trapped within the mind of someone who is not allowed fully to be herself, and the societal shackles are still grating at her wrists. I am not mentally free, and yet, my mind finds ways to seep through the gates that bar me from true expression. It must get out somehow. It is an act of self preservation more than it is creation.

Once in a while, my one true mind rises to the surface amongst all the confusion. And she shocks, she is pure. She is very much so unlike the facade that was built up to represent her. She doesn’t smile, yet she reaches out to you with a warm hand, and says Weary Traveller, You can be yourself here.

Art is the conception of a lot of things. Desperation, but also love. A love for observing and mimicking the world, the imitation of nature, and making it even more fantastical to exist in.

But alas, we must take note. So many people desire to not only create beauty, but also to create something that makes sense to them and to others. To let themselves be seen, and to show others the stages of the minds without fear of nonsensical charades. It is there in front of you, do you continue to watch, or do you walk away?

Either way, art is there for you to feel. It is the umbilical cord that you can willingly attach yourself to. Is this where you want to receive nourishment from? Can this artist provide you with it? Then you take it, and then absorb it, and let it become part of you.

I do not know what art is, no more than what art isn’t. But I know what feels good within my body, what rings honest, true, and right. Something that has no walls, no ill-intent, no deception to uncover. It is there just to exist, and perhaps maybe that’s what it is, truly at its core.

Art is the purest form of existence, and the things that emerge from it are the traces of this purity. It is perhaps what everyone is seeking deep down, not to create art, but to be allowed a life where they can be their truest form. And sometimes witnessing a life that is doing just that is sufficient for the masses. But not for all. And for that small unsatiated few, they become our artists.

1 Comment

John

Lovely and well written-

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