The Pursuit of Sense

About Art and Artists

Artists. Art. Content. Form. Sense. Intent. Effect. Value. Vision. Words with truth and playful plays. Pictures. Pieces and shreds.

Where is the sense? What is the mark?

There is an old saying. Vices are their own punishment, it says. Vices are their own punishment. That’s what the saying says. That’s how it goes.

Is art a vice?

Is art humanity’s vice?

Is art humanity’s punishment for creating art?

Artists bloom with ego. Narcissism. Arrogance. Hubris. Vanity. Artists make art for and about themselves. The world is of no concern to them. They want traits of themselves everywhere. Their purpose is buried deeper with each glimpse of glory conquered from the outside.

Art is less about art than it is about artists. Artists have become the art they were struggling to produce.

Artists are the work.

And so art is no more.

Only the artist prevails.

And the punishment comes by looting the last crumbs of sense left on the ground. The vice comes around and bites the vice back, making art die and grow empty at the very moment it is delivered to humanity.

Art is the artist’s lashing for being the forgery of a vain god.

Does art even exist?

Only the artist prevails. Only humanity remains. Lonely. Ashamed. Bitter. Disgraced over and over.

But isn’t it elegant, the way it all winds up? The way men keep aspiring, sacrificing more value every time they try, but trying nonetheless because what would they be if they didn’t try? What would they be if they surrendered to the rules?

Isn’t it graceful, the pursuit of something that cannot be?

Shreds and pieces. Pictures. Playful plays and truth with words. Vision. Value. Effect. Intent. Sense. Form. Content. Art. Artists.