Like The Stars We Burn Away The Miles

Work last night was fun. I just went to do a few hours of prep. I pretty much spent my four hours making onion rings and helping to make burgers. We all went on strike for 15 minutes to watch the fireworks, which were pretty sad. But I think they meant more to me than I thought they would. I haven’t seen fireworks since before… all of that. I forgot that until I saw them. It’s strange, if you can believe seeing something you’ve seen hundreds of times in your life, and seeing them again and having it feel like the first time. It’s strange, but it’s almost like I forgot how beautiful they were. I really want to take some time off around the end of summer to go and see the finale of the Festival Of Lights at English Bay (that’s when all of the countries perform). Today, for some reason, my feeling like everything before was a past life, is stronger than ever. This has all been the kind of struggle to recovery that poets and novelists refer to as some kind of beauty.

I’ve been scrutinized lately for the scope of my emotions, and the intensity in which I feel them. Mom seems to think that I should aim lower, stop trying to find someone to connect my soul to and just go out and find someone my id wants, have some conscience-free fun and be done with it. I don’t know if that would do well to my soul. Again, I live as the world should be to show it how it can be. In the end, we don’t necessarily live well because it will make a difference to the world, we live that way because it will make a difference to ourselves, and in the end it isn’t winning that matters– it’s that we fought for good at all. You don’t fight for a prize– not really. You fight for a purpose.

Mom has also been questioning my artistic ability. She seems to think that if I’m not good at everything, not entirely diverse, that I’m not artistic. Excuse me for wanting to stick with what I’m good at, to perform the music that inspires me. And not all art is the same, who is one person to decide what constitutes art and what doesn’t? My abstract art sometimes involves projecting an image onto paper to make it larger. That doesn’t mean that I’m going to copy that picture onto the paper exactly as it is. I’m giving myself an accurate template on which to imagine my art, and it’s extremely common in pop art, which I’m very good at. I’m not really into impressionism, because I don’t see those sorts of images, artistically. I’m very receptive of lines and details, and impressionistic art is all about breaking those boundaries. I’m absolutely in love with details. It’s why I love photorealistic art, why I love photographs, why I even love writing by authors who are very descriptive (Stephen King is my perfect example of this). It’s strange, I suppose it’s because so much in the world is left up to our own interpretation, and while that is incredibly fascinating and wonderful, and makes things so diverse and interesting, I believe it takes a truly talented individual to perfectly describe their own viewpoint or idea in such a way that others can understand without misinterpretation. That sounds really strange, almost like you’re putting a concept into a box, but in many respects I also think it elaborates upon a definitive wavelength. It’s as though you’re touching souls with the artist, and seeing the world through their eyes.

This particular concept was bred in me in highschool, when my Grade 11 Visual Arts teacher criticised the balance of a piece I was working on, telling me that a corner of my painting was too bare, and that something needed to be there to make it more visually balanced and create visual comfort for the people viewing it. This is when I told her that it took someone creative to make art that fit within the rules that art studies creates, but it takes an artist to know how to break them. Simply put, that empty space she was referring to was meant to be there. It was supposed to be uncomfotable to look at. Not all art is cushy and sweet. Sometimes it has a message, and to mark it or change it even in the simplest of ways would ruin the purpose of the entire piece. She was always walking around the room taking pieces of art from students and drawing on them and changing them without permission. People hated her because of her habit of defacing their art. She also used to bring in pictures of art and ask us to interpret them. She’d bring in a painting of a tree and ask us what the artist was trying to say. I’d love to think that all art has a message, but I know that isn’t true, and I love to introduce alternative thinking, even if it isn’t my own opinion. We went over the Mona Lisa debate. The general consensus in society these days is that Da Vinci painted the Mona Lisa as a way of painting a secret (represented by her smile). Now think about it this way: What if Da Vinci just painted her portrait and that was the look on her face when he did so? What if the meaning of the painting is as simple as that is exactly how she appeared? What if a painted tree is just a painted tree, nothing more and nothing less? Does that make it any less beautiful? I’ve certainly had people place meaning in my art that is entirely not what it was created for. A good deal of my art is just practice drawings and are completely created at face value. While I love how imaginative and creative the minds of these interpreters are, sometimes I cannot shake how totally ludicrous it is.

I broke out one of my bikinis yesterday. Summer is finally here.

You drew a circle that shut me out, A heretic, A rebel, A thing to flout, But Love and I had the wit to win, We drew a circle that took you in.


~ by Kд§$ị (ИovΔ) on 05/19/2008.

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