I Am Not An Artist…

…I want to be one, though.    Not like Cezanne or Van Gogh, I have no real interest in being a painter… scratch that, I would love to be a painter, I haven’t the artistic vision to make anything that would fit what I think would be beautiful.  And I haven’t the technical skill.

Musician?  I’m already a musician, and I do not think of musicians as artists, per se.  The creation of music within a rhythmic and melodic concept has nothing to do with art in my view.  Nothing, and even if you move outside the realm of melody and rhythm, it isn’t art, at best it is a genius sound-scape, at worst it’s the sound of crap, a most hideous cacophony in a key of your choice.

I want to create art with words, words have impact that music does not, though music does reach places that words do have difficulty reaching.  Words create worlds in the mind and of the mind.  It paints pictures that not even the greatest artist on earth can hope to conjure with paint on canvas.

The time has come to try to write a book, methinks.  I am not sure what I would write about, or what form the writing would take.  I am not sure how I would go about setting up the outline, or what types of characters I would inhabit my worlds with.  I don’t know a lot about what direction this potential work will take, but I am sure I will rant at a loose end on subjects that drive me up a wall, like my unhealthy hatred of commercials,  or something like that.  There will be yelling and barking.  Should be fun.

I am going to start working on this soon.  I’ll drop notes now and again as to how the writing process is going.


Pic of the day:  Hiroshige –  The Izu Mountains


An ad that pretends to be art is — at absolute best — like somebody who smiles warmly at you only because he wants something from you. This is dishonest, but what’s sinister is the cumulative effect that such dishonesty has on us: since it offers a perfect facsimile or simulacrum of goodwill without goodwill’s real spirit, it messes with our heads and eventually starts upping our defenses even in cases of genuine smiles and real art and true goodwill. It makes us feel confused and lonely and impotent and angry and scared. It causes despair.

David Foster Wallace, A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again


Viddy of the day:  The Art of Hiroshige.  The music I don’t like, the art I love.


That’s it from here, America. G’night.


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