A true artistic ideal is the one
that obliterates all in the name of its very creation; the artist, is this
creative animal that lives a quiet life amongst the noise, behaving only
recklessly on paper and canvas. With every urge to create arrives a frantic
urge to recreate, what they have created and what has been created by another,
ideal in need of updates, albums left to wither and denied their right to bloom
in a new generations forfeiting their own right to turn around, take a step
back and discover what it is that caused what they love today to become.
Every man (anthropos) must account
for their bruises and heal those very wounds if indeed they are to move past
them; the artist deny such healing, expose the grotesque of the deep, impacted
injury, photography, paint it, describe the hideous preludes and epilogues
surrounding the impact, becomes the wound and becomes beautiful because of
them. The trends of today, they are embrace and are happily left to be had by
the sycophants fixed on being misers of gray matter; the art of yesterday
becomes the billboards for the artist of today to not aspire to become as, to
be aspire to become as they are, as for every individual, comes an individual
stylism unique to their personality, their environment, fears, indifference and
ambivalences, the very thing that breeds them.
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