Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Not doing art. And watching the dust collect on fallow tubes, and stuff accumulate in space sacred to painting, drawing, and all that great art that i thought i was going to explode with, to reach the height i thought i would get to. But, really, I know I am not that dedicated, and get distracted, and suddenly I am reading poetry, or trying to write it, or playing music, or building, and the great vitality of painting drifts sideways, leaves. If you are a painter, you participate in something that is as ancient as the caves of Altimira, and from those caves, there is no evidence of anything but painting, and cooking, and some of that cooking might have been cannibalistic (or is that another cave?). In any regards, its not prostitution that's the oldest profession, but painting. Or making tools. Painting, as with all the arts, might not be so many steps away from prostitution, in the sense of selling one's most intimate feelings with those who have the money to pay for it all, but painting has its own realm. It is image making, Making images.

And making images? Why is that a driving force? Why does that set someone down in a drawing session with a naked person, trying to capture, in a line, or shade. some semblance of feeling, or reality? What set Vincent down to draw, again and again, the peasant, and the farmer, and the prostitute and farmer?

Now there is image making in photography, Everyone, owns a camera, shoots, is moved, collects, ammasses. Wonders how to archive that mass of data. Tweaks a photo.

Does this eclipse the person that takes a stub of pencil and draws a curvy line?

Are they different worlds? Those that feel the material, the grinding of charcoal, or paint, or the intimate softening of charcoal, and shading, and craftsmanship, against those who point, shoot, and suck in the world by their being there?