Original article posted by Cube:
I have lived many places, seen many things, and sometimes I have an unbearable itch, (right between the shoulder blades), that consumes me with the desire to pack what measly things I might posess and move onward and away. This desire makes me surmise that perhaps I am afraid that if I stay to long in one place I may be found and caught. By whom I do not know, but if ever it should happen, it would take more then persistance and flatulence to make my way free of them.
What is it then that makes an artist create, to take the raw materials of this earth, (whatever the artist is imaginative enough to think of as a material), and use them to express the inner part of himself.
Someone once told me that an artist creates in an attempt to become a diety over his creations. As if the basic and rudimentary forms he might mold with his hands upon paper or earth might in some way make him closer to emulating the diety that created all. “The master Artist, if you will.” Unfortunatly such is the beginnings of fantacism and a path once troden hard to turn from. For with such desire comes a loss of what makes you “real”. Since when we try to emulate beyond what is natural, we begin to lose a part of ourselves to the madness of our own minds.
I have taken a different view on this subject, for I like to consider myself an artist in some fashion, Though often I only refer to myself as such when the opposite sex is in the room and for the short feeling of granduer the title might lend me. You see some are just born with a fire that cannot be put out. So much is snuffed from our essence in this world. We are trained to conform to government and law from the very beginning of our life. We are given identification numbers and serials to let people know, that yes I am who I say I am. There are jobs created in society that do nothing more then allow people to tell other how to act and behave to be considered “normal”. Individuality is a crime once seen to exist, must be severly punished or hid in case of embarrasement.
Yet a humble few will not allow themselves to be smothered under the pressure of conformity, they must create, or else go insane themselves from lack of expression.
So you see the life of the wandering artist is not a sad tale of debt and grumbling belly’s, but one of rejoicing in the act of rebellion against the masses. So I find myself creating and molding in the brightly lit and furnished recess’s of my home, becuase gosh dang it, not all artist’s lives should have to suck.
“It is the darkness that defines the light”
Re: Musings of a Wandering Artist…
I like that you title this “Wandering Artist”, a break from the two views of artist that I’ve always had; that is the “Starving Artist” and the “Tortured Artist.” You either create what you desire and starve because it’s never appreciated( at least in your own lifetime), or you become the whore who hates his work because he’s catering to an audience who will never appreciate what he really has to say. I’ve heard it said that all great art is about pain and suffering. I disagree. I think that all great artist are passionate, and they are more likely to dwell on the negative while it’s occuring than notice the positive. The idea of the wandering artist, however, would constantly be an observer of new things, and therefore could be passionate of everything he sees.
Re: Musings of a Wandering Artist…