I’m an art respondant. I make responses in art to art, from someone else’s work, I give my rendition.
Art is an act without a theatrical mask.
People want to know where the cryptic strangeness comes from. It comes from a brain region that is the center for synthesizing and processing knowledge. Input and output vary, but the result is that there is something in the thinking which makes of it a dramatic act. I think mostly cryptic strangeness is from varieties of knowledge. I think there is a narcosis, a psychosis, and a pathology to creative work.
It is being touched with fire. It is being there and saying that. It is causeless uncertainty. It is the nature of the tribe and its dance of creation. It is an outburst of love. It is the ceaseless wonder amidst the pain. It is the way out of a meaningless existence. It makes people know who each other are. It is self-revelatory and a vision quest. It is like peering through rose colored sunglasses, and seeing a show unfolding in one’s very own life, framed in those lenses. It is borrowing someone’s eyes, to see something new. It is caging the beast of nature and making it perform.
It is taking the eyes from Horace the Elder and giving them back with a poem after seeing his nature. It is completing the spiral tower two floors after it was planned, and long after the money for the project was spent. It is a selfless appraisal of the community. It is giving to the care of others what is rightfully theirs by way of introspection. It is the shining. It is the focus, the flare, and the hours drained by night. It is the battery in the sky of cosmic consciousness, making the glow become cloudy and having firelight to give back to him. It is giving fire back to the gods. It is showing the tribe the dangers of eternity.
And that is just what art is to me. There are many other interpretations.