The Subject
A sadness makes me think about love. Even when love is not the subject. Even when I am not the subject. But what if it’s not love I’m preoccupied with, what if it is art? What if all the love in me is art? And what if all the loving, all the concern, is for and in the interest of the art? And what if the art is for nothing? No, that can’t be right. If it were, I would jump off a building. And I won’t. Instead, I stare at a document. There’s something in it. I walked with someone recently who said something beautiful about making art and not making art, which is the necessary precursor to making art. But I can’t remember the words exactly just that they gave me hope, and settled me. And a few days later I went to a talk where two authors confirmed everything this person on the walk had told me about making art or not making art and I thought wow, I really do need the love of others as much as I need to love them and so I am destined for all this that comes before the art and which the art requires.
all I can do
is be myself is be a representation of the self a reference to the self an amalgamation of selves I cannot serve or predict I can only pour out from the pitcher of the self and out goes the liquid of my personality and history and fears and desires and back into another pitcher—also me and it’s not enough, no it’s never enough the pitcher or the liquid or maybe the liquid is too much and the wrong temperature for the pitcher and the pitcher too narrow at the mouth but, I tell myself, none of that is your concern you are not in the business of metrics, your only unit being the spirit—the anti-chamber the only portal being the one that fills and empties at once that does so relentlessly and with hope
Interesting!