(a man’s thoughts as he steps into a gallery)
‘Ah the age old question, the thought at the back of every artists mind, the wonder if what they are doing is actually real to someone else. What is art? Is it a thought, a philosophy? A memory?’
He keeps still for one moment, pauses as though he was actually thinking about it. Then he carries on floating through the room. ‘What do you see when u look at art, what do you see in other people who look at art, is it your art?
Are you bored?
Do you try?
Is it fear?
What’s so scary about art?
Is it making you think?
Do you really want an answer or and excuse to go away for a while?’. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Who is this man talking to? Himself yes sure, but what’s in him.
‘Why not try to ask yourself another question, maybe the answer is the same for all questions. I have recently realised that we as humans, in fact have more then one life. Now people from one of my past lives has come back and with him brought a bouquet of friends. Ever felt like your room is too messy and need to clean it up, but there’s too much, where do you start? And that’s the same for my questions. Which question comes first? What difference does it make?’
Lights a cigarette, ‘So now I’m supposed to sit here come up with something good to say, something challenging, when the truth is you would hate me later for telling you. I would be the destroyer of your fantasies. Everybody needs to hold on to their fantasies because that’s the half of the body that carries art. It’s the thing we…can’t quite put our finger on, but know we need it. If you touch it, it might fall to pieces.
…has he gone to see the riverman?
Spontaneous combustion? Tell me… what are you thinking of.
That sore in the corner of your eye, sorry it’s in the corner of my eye now… its always the same shoulder that keeps aching, I’m not a doctor so I can’t help my self…I can’t help myself.
Twitch, flick, something somewhere is moving you can feel it but you don’t know where its coming from, but you like it. Somehow it gives you comfort, or maybe I’ve been so tired for so long that I forgot what it feels like to be comfortable…so you are just trying to imagine what it could feel like.
Feel the dark clouds creeping over from the back of your eyes, my eyes.
Who am I speaking for? Who am I speaking to?
Is this art? Would you have the balls to call this art, or would it make you a coward?
You might see this as one connecting thought running through some cynical old man, or a bunch of dead end roads, one having absolutely nothing to do with the other. Or this might be it, the big Kahuna. Question is, why do we feel the need to define art, look at it as something that has to be thoroughly examined, conquered, it just might ruin it. Basically, stop asking that question and move on with life, get over it because it’s not part of the big picture, its not going to keep you safe, not going to determine the way your life will unfolds. Just let the rain fall, no need to chase after the rain drops.
‘Ah the age old question, the thought at the back of every artists mind, the wonder if what they are doing is actually real to someone else. What is art? Is it a thought, a philosophy? A memory?’
He keeps still for one moment, pauses as though he was actually thinking about it. Then he carries on floating through the room. ‘What do you see when u look at art, what do you see in other people who look at art, is it your art?
Are you bored?
Do you try?
Is it fear?
What’s so scary about art?
Is it making you think?
Do you really want an answer or and excuse to go away for a while?’. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Who is this man talking to? Himself yes sure, but what’s in him.
‘Why not try to ask yourself another question, maybe the answer is the same for all questions. I have recently realised that we as humans, in fact have more then one life. Now people from one of my past lives has come back and with him brought a bouquet of friends. Ever felt like your room is too messy and need to clean it up, but there’s too much, where do you start? And that’s the same for my questions. Which question comes first? What difference does it make?’
Lights a cigarette, ‘So now I’m supposed to sit here come up with something good to say, something challenging, when the truth is you would hate me later for telling you. I would be the destroyer of your fantasies. Everybody needs to hold on to their fantasies because that’s the half of the body that carries art. It’s the thing we…can’t quite put our finger on, but know we need it. If you touch it, it might fall to pieces.
…has he gone to see the riverman?
Spontaneous combustion? Tell me… what are you thinking of.
That sore in the corner of your eye, sorry it’s in the corner of my eye now… its always the same shoulder that keeps aching, I’m not a doctor so I can’t help my self…I can’t help myself.
Twitch, flick, something somewhere is moving you can feel it but you don’t know where its coming from, but you like it. Somehow it gives you comfort, or maybe I’ve been so tired for so long that I forgot what it feels like to be comfortable…so you are just trying to imagine what it could feel like.
Feel the dark clouds creeping over from the back of your eyes, my eyes.
Who am I speaking for? Who am I speaking to?
Is this art? Would you have the balls to call this art, or would it make you a coward?
You might see this as one connecting thought running through some cynical old man, or a bunch of dead end roads, one having absolutely nothing to do with the other. Or this might be it, the big Kahuna. Question is, why do we feel the need to define art, look at it as something that has to be thoroughly examined, conquered, it just might ruin it. Basically, stop asking that question and move on with life, get over it because it’s not part of the big picture, its not going to keep you safe, not going to determine the way your life will unfolds. Just let the rain fall, no need to chase after the rain drops.
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