Art is

What is Art?

re: Ibsen said, “There must be a troll in what I write.” Art, today, encompasses the dream postponed into anything-goes. Justified in letting the artist descend into mediocrity, spiraling around an ego put upon a pedestal. As if, all that a person does is art. And it is. But I have no time for it. I agree with Harold Bloom in a recent interview. He asked, would you want just anyone to do surgery on you? Of course not. You want someone to know what they are doing before they cut into you. Yet today we look at the arts as if everything is the fine craftsmanship of a great artist, and much of it isn’t. Until you become yourself what benefit can you be to others? Mediocrity appeals to the mass, and it appeals to the mass ego. And though it may be art, it is not the exceptional dream, enchanting the child, like a kiss walking home to my knowledge, in an unformulated illustration which wakes me up – Michael Carrico, Seattle Artist

It is the dark, inaccessible part of our personality, what little we know of it we have learnt from our study of the dream-work and of the construction of neurotic symptoms, and most of this is of a negative character and can be described only as a contrast to the ego. We all approach the id with analogies: we call it a chaos, a cauldron full of seething excitations… It is filled with energy reaching it from the instincts, but it has no organization, produces no collective will, but only a striving to bring about the satisfaction of the instinctual needs subject to the observance of the pleasure principle.- Freud re: the id

By nature, a sentient creature requires the means to pass on that information which he receives, much in the way a lake requires an inlet and an outlet lest it become stagnant. Naturally, that which stagnates becomes toxic. A sentient with no outlet becomes a candidate for insomnia, a crucible for the ulcer, a garden for cancers, perhaps even an instrument of violent psychosis.

We have found, by necessity, countless ways to express ourselves, not all of them artistic, of course, at least not by strict definition. But as we are the recipients of far more ‘inflow’ than any of our sentient predecessors, we are forced to more efficiently process this glut, or fall into decay, or burst completely at the seams. Whether through work or play, through art or sport, crime or ballet, a hug, a kiss, a slap in the face — we must let it out, or it will kill us. Metrov


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