Our society is so hyper vigilant and all about instant gratification, the need of immediate results and tangibility so art can seem useless. What can you do but marvel at it. But art as it is, is quite powerful, it incites creation, healing, wonder and more. It makes the deepest accesses of the mind known then manifest. It helps purge, being a supreme act of expression and therefore ventilation for the repressed minds we often inhabit. It is a sense of self, largely lost in our world with so much conformity and tribalism
Oscar Wilde’s, “Dorian Grey” preface of the book spoke of Art’s uselessness and an artist liking too much what he made as if self deprecation is the only rational response to your own creation.
Why is it taboo to give yourself superlatives that suggest greatness, patting your own back, why most others validate us before we ourselves?
We’ll spend lifetimes seeking others acceptance because we aren’t taught to stoke our own egos, as if humility is only in self deprecation
This hits home because Art empowers, it empowered me! Of course I didn’t even know this til recently, spending so much time downplaying what art means to me, softly acknowledging what I’ve been able to do and who I’ve been able to become because of it. Though I can’t dare call myself powerful or great or say that I am a good or great writer because how would that look to others, I myself even cringe at times at the implication imposed upon me or declared by myself. I mean beauty is in the eye of the beholder and all that jazz, but different strokes and to each their own, because everyone won’t feel my art. It doesn’t dismiss its greatness, even if self proclaimed, it wasn’t created for approval, but as an expression of me. Why would I assume my art can achieve what I haven’t, acceptance? A structural writer wouldn’t marvel at my writing because its everywhere-no form, decorated in loose free flowing flaws. My writing is all over the place, but so is life, so am I. It expresses me, not structure because I am not formality nor structure. I am random and rambunctious. We love to give the appearance of being neat clean put together and highly functioning, but that’s not our truth, it’s pretend at best, a public mask, it reminds me of how much work and pain women endured just to wear a tightly tied corset back in the day. My life isn’t tied tight, holding it breath as to not be seen as something less, not even close. My writing depicts my internal conflicts and attempts at resolution, which gives me a messy sort of harmony, warring for balance while several different themes of complimentary forces, which I once viewed as opposing, fighting each other for dominion. As they wrestle at impasse, I find myself even keel in the midst of chaos one step too far to the left, or conformed organization too far to the right, so I walk boldly between in the grey where I believe truth self and real life not only exists but thrives! Because art isn’t useless, it uses life, it demands attention, for you to stop, reflect, express, then re-imagine beyond the borders of that which you’ve just witnessed
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