I consider myself a writer and writing an art but in a certain sense I’m indulging in compulsive behavior and excusing the awkwardness of interacting in uncontrolled environments as an expression of beauty or truth and expecting your approval.
I’m an acquired taste. I think everything is representational but everything representational is an illusion (the meaning of ‘representational’ shifts). Does Art exist in a forest if no tree is there to see it? Is Object Impermanence real?
Peek-A-Boo!
Somehow this stance, which is simply a mental crutch designed to affirm my existence has independent value so stop picking on me, when linked with my firm belief that the Artist has no claim of control over how their work is interpreted for good or ill, nor are they compelled to explain it, seems to lead others to conclude I’m either a nihilist or a libertarian but the truth is I like a Turner just as well as a Seurat.
More Stupid Watergate
Hail Hydra