Tuesday, January 26, 2010
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Sunday, January 10, 2010
Monday, January 4, 2010
Saturday, January 2, 2010
... a Boucher is about as decorative as the touch of a desired ones hand. Innocent. Meaningless yet overwhelming.
Is beauty definable much less describable? Is there content to beauty? To ugliness? Do they each exist as an established entity? Are they less than high minded subject matter? Is lust less true and valuable than the politics of global warming?
Art is for no one. It is a singular undertaking with supposed popular appeal. It just is. To make an art for others is politics. The most vapid of endeavors.
A late Rembrandt self portrait is not about looking at a likeness of an aging Rembrandt-It's about the paint becoming flesh. Alchemy pure and simple. The transformation of not only base matter (colored paste) to living material but the miracle of making something as idiosyncratic as the image of an aging, funny looking man speaking to us with our voice. There is no Aesthetic to this. No Explaining. No Commentary. There is only acknowledgement. A kinship.
True art can never just illustrate, explain, enhance, or make meaningful. Art can only speak to all when it ignores that it does.
That Rembrandt was not painted for anyone but Rembrandt. That's why its so true and moving.
"Aesthetics for the artist is like ornithology is for the birds"-Barnett Newman.
"If it looks meaningful...it isn't" Me