the art of art is self-described. i’ve often grumbled this when criticism came around. people could describe anything, feel everything, and yet none of the interpretations mattered for all of them did. art was, i felt, contained in its own corpse and left to die through the living lost.
i tend to still think this. i scoff at some paintings. i try to create my own meaningless ones. often, the results look worse than the dead.
this operationalized defence is less of a function of realizing my own dirtied pretentiousness, but rather that the language is limited to things as unartful as myself. i do not always zip my fly. pants remained unfurled. i still do not shave my face.
but with art, by art, as art, these deficiencies can be defined as anything but. they can seem imbued with purpose, with the same lightness that consumes the sun. they are large. they are the tiniest thing. they are the universe being itself.
this may sound like poppycock, perhaps a self-sustained save because at this moment my fly stretches further down like an orchid with no insect to pollinate. i’d usually say so, but i think that this type of reasoning is vital. it is filled with the same life and death that makes art art. in writing a day behind, in trying to tell you how it was to have been while being, i want you to know that these words move like paintings without them, music without any note.
can you see their every kind of beautiful colour beyond the black? can you hear the song singing? in both, they are blued, and they are yours, and they uncritically, unartfully mouth i miss you in a dirty, gruff fury that splatters an unnecessary order to sound smart.
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