These days it’s
in fashion to be a writer or an artiste of some sort. We string together words,
arranging verse and line to amaze, dazzle and awe. We work really hard to make
sure our work is up to scratch and can pass the test of public opinion.
But is this
really the path of talent. To play to the gallery and twist and turn at every fad,
trend or craze? Can we enjoy art for art’s sake? Abandon the endorsements and
celebrity crowd to just revel in the pure flow of an art form or revel in the
true heart and life of a talent.
That is what I
am saying, let’s do art for art’s sake and leave the rest to follow. I doubt
Picasso was that famous in the beginning but now you would be committing some
sort of modern art suicide if you said anything negative about the man but
seriously who sees all that meaning in a bunch of skewed, misshapen, totally
unreal box shapes. But you see, that is art and it speaks for itself.
It does not need
the lens of the camera or the reach of the internet or radio waves or the RGB
treatment of T.V. it speaks, it lives, it breathes and with that, in the heart
of the true believer and enjoyer it takes flight and life of its own. It
spreads not with the touch of great editing but of a heart elated and touched.
From mouth to
mouth it moves from heart to heart, without the help of hyperbole or
popularism, it rises and falls on the crest of the true believer or nay sayer.
It stands its own both in the crowd of the adoring and in the halls of the
unimpressed. From the detractors to the promoters, from derision to
appreciation, it allows itself to be transformed by the mouths that speak it
and the hearts the believe it.
Like a meek
humble servant it conforms to the titles, and forms and structure given to it
by those who love it and love it less and on it goes, to the next ear, heart or
mouth, to stand judgement afresh and in so doing take on a new life and a new
form.
That is art that
rides on its own merit and circles the globe on the hearts, minds, mouths and
ears of those that it meets. It has not life of its own except that which the
people give it. Its identity and potency is in its lines, its ability to
survive and thrive in this unruly throng.
Now that is true
art.
