Friday, November 5, 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?Ugliness?Do they exist as a 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 just is.It is a singular undertaking with supposed popular appeal. 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 speak to us as if with the voice of God.There is no aesthetic to this.No explaining.There is only acknowledgement.Kinship.
True art can never just illustrate or explain or 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
November 30, 2009
Thursday, November 4, 2010
— The Blind Assassin, Margaret Atwood (via expose) (via sixthsense)