rep

i was reading / thinking about art just now. artistic nature and qualities.

and i still need to buy christmas presents.

art and temporality. what constitutes a solid, chromatic piece of art? like i was reading, pride is the perfect artistic fodder. it comes in stuttering bursts of indignance; it erupts to the surface like lava, searing and scalding the air. humility is no good. it takes too long. an instance of humility means nothing, because it is a quality which loses all semblance of meaning if it is not practiced in continuance. if all heroes could be hypocrites, then not much would set them apart from the crowd, would it?

i have started to use my pinkie finger to type, or hit return, in certain situations. it is something i saw my boss doing, and it pleased me greatly with its efficiency. must be the german in me. now i have begun doing it for myself, and this paragraph was preceded by the first instance of me noticing it. it's kind of like stretching to that new fret for the first time, bending into a whole new note instead of just a half-step. pleasant. accomplished.

art is something that most people consider as existing within space. the frame of a painting. the green depths of an iris. the purple-fudge-ripple of a mountain range in twilight; rambling rocky roads with marshmallow-softened edges. but art is something that absolutely, positively, must exist moreso in time than in space. definitively. art is not stand-alone...it requires observers, audiences, critics, bearers and bringers with intentions, or sometimes assumptions and arrogances. even a painting or a landscape is nothing if the blossoming mind which is ripe to sweep the dust out of its intricacies has its back turned. it is a required, a fundamental prerequisite. a canvas by salvador dali is nonsense without a rational mind with just enough quirkiness to be awestruck by the disruption of convention.

other art is just as involved with time. some even go so far as to invoke it...music for example. but a song is only...playable. after the fact, after the striking resonance of its first instance, it is then a reproduction, which doesn't seem to say much for its innovative and intrinsic artistic value, even if we still find it charmant. certainly that sentence will rub some folk the wrong way, and i don't know with any certainty why i wrote it. seat of pants. what sense does poetry make, if not when it is being recited or thought about? none. just words, just thoughts, and at that just thoughts that were scripted by someone else who probably felt a host of different feelings about their words than you do.

trying to weave my way back into this writing thing~