tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5465070162057076212024-02-19T07:45:21.202-08:00Big Black WardrobeMary Reveryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13802886760870240513noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-546507016205707621.post-34479130895542273082015-07-18T20:29:00.000-07:002015-08-10T02:33:18.600-07:00Art and Artifex<b>
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There's a point where push comes to shove, pain becomes the weak, aloneness beckons the selfish, over-fullness begs the spill. A point on a map. Charted in coal and charred on your soul. No water, no sponge, no washing, no brushing. Away from integrity. This point is a membrane breaking and a part of you seeping through. It's the tip of the dart as it pushes through your skull and splits you in half. It's the point of intersection between you and your shadow's gaze, each one reflecting upon the other, none seeing eye to eye. This point, in Another's eye, is merely Art.
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There's also a point when you make endless ends meet, opposites coincide, male and female conjunct. When you make struggle bare fruit, skill bare mastery, mystery, majesty. It's the point of clutching the dagger and pushing it through the back of your shadow, letting it bleed, igniting the fire, melding the glittering shards, and gifting the whole to another. To The Other. It's the point where you were your Priest and are now Artifex to Another.
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</b>Mary Reveryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16467046358329455629noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-546507016205707621.post-79170249873858275652014-11-14T04:36:00.000-08:002015-01-21T09:15:00.673-08:00Facts and Artefacts<b>
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There are always a handful of things waiting to be bought, a handful of things waiting to be borrowed, a handful of things waiting to be done, a handful of things waiting to be said. There are also a handful of facts waiting to be uncovered. They wait around the corner of the street you're on, which lies at the intersection between your past and your potentialities.
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But there is also the love for the veil. The awe for the mystery. The temptation of knowing and forgetting. Owning and disowning. Abiding and foreboding. The love for nothing. The lust for everything. There is also the Hand of God. It manipulates at the intersection between being and willing, Nephesh and Neshamah.
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Mary Reveryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16467046358329455629noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-546507016205707621.post-74732075092528436932014-05-07T18:04:00.000-07:002014-06-21T19:10:31.027-07:00Date with Illusion. Date with Destiny<b>
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When Neptune enters 7 degrees Pisces, I serve you. The heart opens into a blood eagle, the throat exhales into the sighs of the world, my eyes close into an open Eye, the mind unites into the Light. I heal. When Illusion meets certainty, they battle, and only one overcomes.
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When purpose meets choice, spirit meets shell, toll meets life, and destiny meets identity, we serve each other. From South to North and East to West, rise to fall and beginning to end. We heal.
When destiny hits you, you struggle, only one wins.
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Purpose. Self. Others. Serve. Each Other. Sacrifice. End.
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</b>Mary Reveryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16467046358329455629noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-546507016205707621.post-1380675363727874802014-03-16T17:00:00.000-07:002019-09-03T19:07:56.116-07:00It's Not Horror, it's Welcome To Night Vale. From Personal Consciousness to the Collective Unconscious<b>
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In my journey around here, I stumbled upon <a href="http://youtu.be/j4Tf8vwgBSA">this little gem</a> that put a big Sagittarian smile on my face. As I grew to love it, I eventually reached that dreadfully painful yellow stage, eons more painful than the black, where I wondered and became highly interested in what others thought of it, as a deep thirst for connection dawned upon me. Then I read this:
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<i>Okay, why is everyone falling in love with this? It simply isn't funny, it's just describing random events. It's like some writer decided to jot down whatever he thought of and have somebody read it. It was actually painful to listen to. There is no plot or character development and no attachment to the town. It is bad in every objective way possible. </i>
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I struggled with it for a bit, and then decided upon this:
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Precisely. The writer(s) DID jot down whatever (t)he(y) thought of and THAT is why it's terrifying and generally appealing. When one writes down like that, it's called stream of consciousness, but I would much rather call it automatic writing. Due to the continuous, stream aspect of it, this technique lets the unconscious seep through the conscious. If used right, and by right I mean often, intensely, and insightfully enough, it enables one to bypass the conscious part of the mind completely and open the door to the hidden region of the self, which has a personal but also a <i>collective</i> side (you know, that place where the fear of death and a bunch of other general stuff are said to reside). The writers of Night Vale masterfully did just that. They pretty much unleash the collective unconscious archetypal creatures (disguised as <a href="http://sd.keepcalm-o-matic.co.uk/i/keep-calm-and-all-hail-the-glow-cloud-1.png">glow clouds</a>) on you, and you are either repelled or amused, depending on your relationship with that part of the human mind.
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Since the unconscious is a very terrifying thing to confront/ become conscious of when unprepared, listening to something created with this technique is at least unnerving. For people who have already confronted and won over the (collective) unconscious, meeting it again is amusing, like meeting an old foe turned friend. If you find that you do not resonate with any of the things described by Cecil, it is because you are too high up in your conscious self to even realize there may be things you are completely unaware of, regarding yourself and anyone else. You are completely unconscious about the unconscious. You haven't reached Nigredo yet. Shuffle along and go on pretending to be awake.
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</b>Mary Reveryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16467046358329455629noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-546507016205707621.post-18398122550751799972014-02-10T06:13:00.004-08:002014-02-12T15:28:42.276-08:00It's not Horror, it's Eliade. From the Dark Night of the Soul to The Death of the Ego <b>
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Since the self dubbed "<a href="http://youtu.be/1tGL_ep7fOc">first Romanian horror movie</a>" appeared in cinemas, I was forced on several social occasions to defend in small talk words and thus somehow mire my relationship with Eliade's literature. It wasn't the first time my intended discourse hit head-on the wall of exotericism. Interacting with people in general has that effect on me.
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What I should have said is: It's one thing to be scared out of your regular heartbeat through the hollywoodian profane element of surprising horror or gore. It's a whole other world to be expelled out of your self through the awe inducing, mythic supernatural of Eliade.
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Unlike the self-absorbed Artist, who is unable to accept the Sufferance derived from the intersection between the profane and sacred, matter and spirit, imperfect existence and aspirations to perfection, who is unable to accept the Sufferance triggered by the human condition and constantly opts to evade it through artistic creation, becoming trapped into an eternal Nigredo, the selfless Eliade masterfully draws you in with him into the sacred truth of the cosmic human and you are, if willing and ready, plunged into the ultimate uncanny, blood chilling, spine shivering, awfully marvelous manifestation and experience of the supernatural within the natural. If you let it, Eliade's fiction acts as the cosmic psychoanalyst, the tzadik that draws you into his soul trip and shows you what you need to do to heal and transcend. He slyly immerses you into the Darkness of the Soul to horrify you out of your selfish, ego satiated, self.
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No, this is not horror. No, this is not Art. This is The Great Art. This is attaining Albedo through Nigredo. This is Alchemy. This is the literary Eliade.
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Well, at least Dan Pița seems to get me.
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</b>Mary Reveryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16467046358329455629noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-546507016205707621.post-64496593692876354702014-01-04T22:04:00.000-08:002014-01-05T09:17:16.301-08:00William Shakespeare's Chemical Wedding<b>
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Let me not to the marriage of true kinds
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Admit impediments. Art is not sulfur
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Which alters when it mercury finds,
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Or bends with the philosopher to fold:
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Oh no! It is an ever-fixed sigil
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That looks on Asiah and is never shaken;
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It is the True Node to every wandering vigil
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Whose worth's unknown, although his sign be taken.
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Art is not Time's fool, though rosy cross and streaks
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Within his bending sickle's compass come:
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Art alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
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But bears it out even to the edge of Aziluth.
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If this be error and upon me proved,
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I never moved, nor no man ever changed.
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</b>Mary Reveryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16467046358329455629noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-546507016205707621.post-60730398121643700502013-10-10T20:41:00.000-07:002015-01-22T03:30:12.937-08:00Cancers wanna be wed and Scorpios wanna be dead (Goth Astro Revery)<b>
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Last Friday, as I found myself yet again walking around the Mega Image <i>fancy</i> isles (they should sponsor me), hopelessly trying to figure out what obscure treat to treat myself to and subconsciously listening to The Sisters of Mercy's <i>First And Last And Always</i> album for the always-th time, I've had one of those pesky (because they have no greater use) micro revelations that come with being a 9 and are unavoidable when you've come in contact with and managed to synthesize almost all information in this Universe and beyond:
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<i>Is Andrew Eldritch a Cancer? He's surely crying much too much about his lost love, fire, and will over some kind of angel he seems to have wanted to wed to death. Until he was abandoned and discovered amphetamine-driven nihilism, that is.</i>
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As I was reassessing whether wanting to wed the hell out of someone is axiomatically Cancerian, I stopped to make a mental note to check out Robert Smiths' chart as well and continued: <i>supposing all this is true about Eldritch to some extent and that I've guessed a part of him</i> (that which reveals itself through his lyrics) <i>dead on</i> (future far-fetched pun intended)<i>, how come <a href="http://youtu.be/A9sMZ_5NjM8">goths</a> can revel in his music when the lyrics have this profound emo-cancerian underlining to them which normally should repel those with a taste for the <a href="http://bigblackwardrobe.blogspot.ro/2013/07/you-lost-me-at-what-art-is.html">deeper than love</a>, deeper than anything things in life?! </i>
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My mind went on to wonder if it's simply a Cancerian thing to provide fine, temple of love lorn gloom for the darker at heart who cannot provide it for themselves, since they are too busy having troubling <a href="http://youtu.be/WCqaXfFJD9c">conversations about the kingdom of fire</a> with Dante in their day to day reveries. And then it hit me: it appeals because it is profound. It's so profound and intense that only something as scorpionic as goths can handle with a straight, sober face.
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<i>Cancer and Scorpio, swimming in a sea... one wants to wed, the other drops dead. ...and Marian saves them from their watery grave? Marian must be a Pisces. </i>
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I eventually got home (without really buying anything, as is usually the case with my Mega Image mise-en-consumerist-abîme trips) and did his chart. And, sure enough, his Mars and Venus are both in Cancer. Robert also has his Mars in Cancer. And Rozz was a Scorpio with Moon in Cancer. Now the astrologer in me can say with puzzling grace that Romeo's distress is surely in Cancer. And I'm so tired.
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</b>Mary Reveryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16467046358329455629noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-546507016205707621.post-32238872663893005122013-09-30T16:58:00.000-07:002016-09-16T06:08:41.172-07:00Life as a constant detour<b>
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I was told, on many what-should-you-do-with-your-life occasions, that doing this or that is not for me. That I should rather do <i>those</i> instead. And on as many occasions, I've laughed and continued on my current way until I met the goal.
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On many <i>right</i> occasions, the only motivation and drive I've had to do this and that were the feeling that I can do them better than others and the conviction that this somehow bound me, through an unnamed celestial contract, to do them. To set an example for those who would come after me. Leave a road map. Turn on the light at the end of the tunnel before proceeding to the next one.
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On other occasions, I've slept into the side road of doing those <i>wrong</i> things because I seemed at first unable to do them well and that defied and challenged me. <i>Those</i> things beckoned to be tried, experienced, and done by me through their exoticism and difference from what I was used to. And on I went, into the Garden of perpetual detours, back-and-forth between old and new, familiar and unfamiliar, meant to be and made to be. North Node and South Node. Until I became lost.
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The Archer sets its target, points the arrow, shoots, and, once the arrow has pierced through the center of the bull's eye, moves along to the next target. Never lingering, forever set on new, unconquered territory. The King revels in deserved attention. The Ram bellows its will ahead. The Scorpion descends into hermetic hiding. The Ego disperses.
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A side road to <a href="http://bigblackwardrobe.blogspot.ro/2013/07/life-as-constant-suicide.html">feeling nothing</a> is choosing to feel something different than what you are supposed to and expected to. Or what you expect of yourself. Avoiding Art because it damns and doing science instead. Cursing science because it is Da'Ath. Fending magic because it is demonic. Despising culture because it is exoteric, mediocre, and ultimately a filthy lie. Forsaking Punk and DaDa because they are dead. Spitting in the face of Nietzsche because he is dead too. Avoiding the simple life, because you feel you are passed that. Living this and living that but never living life. As life should. Never living fully. All the way, on that one, designated, painful way. For you. Forever taking a detour.
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</b>Mary Reveryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16467046358329455629noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-546507016205707621.post-86333392729765848782013-07-13T19:24:00.001-07:002013-07-13T20:19:45.402-07:00Life as a constant suicide<b>
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Back when I was in middle school, which used to be in this building within the courtyard of a Catholic church and a cemetery, I would fantasize about being dead. About how it would feel like to be dead.
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During breaks, on the semi-basement corridor which had classrooms on the left and windows to the cemetery on the right, I would force myself to imagine the experience of death. Although I perfectly understood that once dead one should stop feeling, the curiosity and fascination was so strong and spellbinding that I could not stop day dreaming about it. The curiosity steadily developed into an intense desire of experiencing death. Right then and there. The desire wasn't for suicide, but for an instant and natural ceasing to exist. So that I could understand the fact of not being. I desperately wanted to burn all stages of my life in a second and get to experience that one minute before and whatever else was after. I wasn't curious about whether there was anything after, I was obsessed with the experience itself. This is how my obsession with experiencing nothingness started.
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Later, in high school, I remember I would stare at myself in the mirror for days, imagining myself older and being yet again eager to burn the stages, finding myself to be another. Normally, people would use this technique to see themselves better, wiser, cooler or more accomplished than they are in the present. They would essentially use it as an inspirational device. I would use it just to escape the burden of being and thus simulate the experience of not being. I wasn't Peter Pan going off to live in Neverland out of fear of growing up. Nor was I, in case I need to stress, MK Alice falling into Wonderland out of a basic need to cope with ritual abuse. I was Mary, with Moon in Scorpio, going off to stop living out of a personal, deep, and intense curiosity.
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Over 4 years and two point-at-myself-and-shoot cameras later, at University, my desire to use myself or others as models in my pictures stopped and, without any notice, my fascination of <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ileana-she-iele/sets/72157625386508934/">shadows</a> appeared and started to weave itself into my obsession of not being. Until recently, I was unaware of this weaving, and explained my tendency to notice and shoot shadows or desire to create and record them as my means of expressing anger at the injustice of not having proper equipment and injustice of equipment in general. I thought of myself as a dadaist in the relaxed, mainstream sense. Until recently.
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In the last two years, however, I was forced on many occasions to think of the less further future, but still far enough to surpass my daily, monthly or yearly goals. To surpass my current day dreams or reveries. And I couldn't. I found myself trying hard to imagine a course that my life would be expected or need to take, imagining the path and not the end. And I couldn't. I couldn't see anything at all. As if there was nothing. And then I finally knew I had day dreamed about nothing for so long that it eventually caught up with me and managed to engulf me enough to not exist anymore in the future or for the future. To almost not exist at all, being constantly at the threshold of physical existence and mental nonexistence. I eventually became my own shadow.
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As my own shadow, I am not Peter Pan, living happily ever after in Neverland. Nor am I part of the Peter Pan Generation, delaying the happily never after into Realitybitesland. I am Mary Revery, daydreaming sterilely ever after into nonexistence. And that makes me feel exactly what I longed to feel from the very beginning. Nothing. And my only reason of still existing is to prolong its experience. In an absurd hedonist way. Until the true end.
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</b>Mary Reveryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13802886760870240513noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-546507016205707621.post-89040524932733252682013-07-04T07:35:00.002-07:002019-09-03T19:23:16.128-07:00You lost me at what Art is<div style="margin: 0 auto; text-align: justify; width: 601px;">
<b>I've been meaning to write about this in a place potentially accessible by anyone but probably accessed by none for a while.</b>
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<b>Whenever someone brings the word art into a discussion, my stomach starts churning, my eyes turn instantly to the person who dared emit that word, and I feel utterly compelled to size him or her up. When the discussion is virtual, my reaction is similar.</b>
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<b>When the word is followed by what the person thinks is an appropriate description or, worse, a valid definition of the word, whatever was in front of my eyes is replaced by a huge bulls-eye and all I want to do is shoot at it with arrows made of serpents pre-stiffened by cracking them like whips.</b>
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My problem with most uses of the word is that they are in fact abuses of it by people who have absolutely nothing to do with the subject matter - Art. They might have had some tangency with the lower understanding of the concept, art with a small a, art for the layman, art in art school, art in history of arts, art of science, martial arts, art in arts and crafts, tattoo art, <a href="http://bigblackwardrobe.blogspot.ro/2013/05/nudes-romanian-contemporary-photography.html">nude art</a>, art house cinema, art as an institution, but never experienced Art with a capital A, never having played the role of the Artist themselves. How do I know this? We could say, for the sake of the discussion, that I have an Art-dar and then I could go into this brilliantly crafted rhetoric that would make Plato proud and that would be intended to open the eyes of anyone willing to what is the truth of the matter.
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Or I could open up another bag of <a href="http://www.covrigei.ro/pufuleti.jpg">pufuleți</a> and drown my frustration in them, as all humans were meant to do. Or were they? What frustration, you ask? The frustration of having already done that a thousand times before. Of always looking for the perfect <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Audience_design">audience design</a> and always getting a raised eyebrow from an artist (with a small a) or a pokerface from a dazed and confused layman. Since I'm writing about this, it's clear I chose the first path. So buckle up! Because, after we're done here, you will be tempted to conclude that I AM the Artist as <a href="http://www.avantgarde-metal.com/content/stories2.php?id=195">satan-boy Hexvessel over there</a> IS <a href="http://youtu.be/ZK5ziQMLmQc">the ritual</a>. </b></div>
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Now, before we call upon the Artist to explain what Art is, let us look at some recent instances of poor appeal to it that have made me go insane with indignation. This way, the clever reader I expect will be able to intuitively figure out what I mean before actually saying it.
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Exhibit A. Art is ultimately the public display of emotion
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<u>Back story</u>. I click on <a href="http://webcultura.ro/la-revedere-pentru-totdeauna/">this article</a>, being vaguely familiar with the subject of Abramovic and Ulay's love story. I read the article bottom up, as I usually do with articles I expect to be uninteresting. From the way they are described in the article, as I'm reading it bottom up, I already feel like I'm reading about a bunch of idiots. And then I finally get to the intro that has me out of my wits with fury. The author unwittingly says and I accurately translate: "If art is ultimately the public display of the artist's emotions, then which art form would be the purest if not that which presents the deepest human emotion [love]?". Rephrased, the uber intellectual sophism affirmed in that intro is as follows:
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Art is ultimately the public display of emotion; love is the deepest emotion; therefor the public display of love is the highest art form.
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Exhibit B. Nudity is the highest art form
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<u>Back story</u>. I click on <a href="http://www.ironic-iconic.com/2013/07/i-just-want-you-to-be-happy-and-naked.html">this article</a>, being unaware that the Romanian Elle magazine chose to portray summer fashion on its latest cover with a highly accessorized and highly nude model. I shrug at finding out that someone reported the cover on facebook, which, although sounds like the reasonable thing to do since facebook has the no nipples policy, is utterly unexciting news to me. And then I see the deeply inappropriate appeal to Art that the blogger makes in order to gratuitously justify the otherwise witty idea of juxtaposing a nude model with the title "long hot summer" on a magazine that is meant to SELL fashion. The author unwittingly insists and I accurately translate: "We refuse to understand that fashion means art, that nudity is the highest art form, and we do not possess the cognitive capacities to understand and appreciate beauty in its true meaning". There are so many fallacies in there that I'll stick to the main ones:
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Fashion is art; Nudity is the highest art form; Beauty in its true meaning is nudity (?) and cannot be understood by us, mere mortals.
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Now, what exactly is wrong with these statements? Well, let me start by noting that, in a similar way to how our world is viewed as the lowest emanation from the divine creator Ain Soph in Kabbalah, so can the concept of Art may be understood in gradually closer or further ways from the truth. The very furthest I choose to call <i>false</i> simply because accepting it blocks the mind from obtaining higher understanding of the concept.
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<u>The lowest level</u>: art as craft or skill. art as excellence</h3>
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This understanding tends to be predominant in art school environments where art is viewed as a subject which can be studied, taught, and learnt. Example: (s)he is so good at writing/ painting/ drawing/ sculpting/ dancing/ singing/ composing music/ playing an instrument/ fighting/ other means historically deemed to belong to artistic expression that (s)he is considered an artist.
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<u>The intermediate level</u>: art as a product of the artist who opposes time by immortalizing beauty.</h3>
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This is usually the description artists intuitively assign to themselves. Example: That sculptor was so in love with the beauty of his model that, knowing beauty and life are passing, felt the need to immortalize his experience of her beauty by sculpting it in marble.
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<u>The highest level</u>: Art as the product of the Artist who experiences and externalizes the Sufferance </h3>
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Note the capital S. In this understanding, the Artist is the one who experiences the most intense thing a human can experience, the deepest implication of the inherent contradiction between unlimited desire and limited possibility pertaining to the human condition. Namely, the Sufferance. Capital S is used here to distinguish it from its lesser emanations which manifest in the lesser understandings of art and the lesser ways of existing as an artist. The Artist is not the only one who experiences the Sufferance. The mystic does too. The difference between the two is that the first seeks to escape it by expelling it while the latter embraces it. The product of the expulsion is Art. The sole reason for Art is Sufferance. Anything created out of any other reason than the Sufferance is not Art, but is often deemed as such by the layman. I find the damned poet to be a very strong example of the Artist.
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Because the product of the Artist represents a true part of him and of mankind, according to Plato's definition of beauty (roughly: truth appeals and is thus beautiful, lies repel and are thus ugly), it appeals to everyone and is therefore perceived as beautiful by everyone. This is the true link between Beauty and Art. Therefore anything which lacks content and cannot be evaluated in terms of true/false cannot be evaluated as beautiful/ugly either. Therein lying the perversion of beauty without meaning, of aesthetics, which is predominant in the lower layers of art. Fashion and many other means of expression deemed as artistic or of art either tend to be focused on aesthetics, or are motivated by completely different things than Sufferance (with whichever case s): for the sake of whatever the author thinks is art, for the fans, for the fame, for the money, for the hell of it, for the message. For the win. Nudity for nudity's sake or for a fashion campaign in a fashion magazine (Exhibit B) is NOT Art.
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When sufferance at whichever level is not the one and only reason, the product cannot be called art. This is why saying that the ultimate goal of art is to publicly express an emotion (Exhibit A) is doubly wrong. First, it is wrong because not just any emotion is involved in the artistic process, but the one and only most intense emotion is and that is NOT love. Love may lead to a lower emanation of sufferance, but it isn't Sufferance itself. Second, it is wrong because the ultimate goal is to expel Sufferance out of the self and not put it on public display. This is where a very fine distinction between the Artist and a mere exhibitionist must be drawn: the Artist most desires freedom from Sufferance and expels it from the self into the void of creation, while the exhibitionist most desires the attention of others and displays anything he can to the public. The exhibitionist lives for the crowd, while the Artist lives outside of it. The Artist is Narcissus. First, because his experience is so intense that he cannot but become fully immersed in his own self and fully isolated. Second, because he may very well meet the same fate as Narcissus if he stops to look at his own creation which is irresistibly beautiful but the love for which will lead him into a vicious circle, a self-destructive life, and ultimately an untimely death. This is why I find the damned poet to be a clear instance of the Artist.
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Whether Abramovic and Ulay were ever artists to begin with (prior to each performance) or whether performance "art" can be considered Art are discussions somewhat out of scope. In any case, their status as Artists depends on their true motivation for creating, something which cannot be readily determined. However, since most of their work is described in terms of ideas and themes they explored and challenges they presented to the audience, my Art-dar would be inclined to say that it sounds like desperate need to communicate rather than desperate need to escape Sufferance. In fact, if we are to trust Sernet and the rest of the avant-garde lot, even what might have been art initially, once published, stops being art since the goal shifts from something which needs to be expelled to something which needs to be seen and appreciated or understood. And this is where another and final distinction must be made: the distinction between the human and the Artist. The human includes the Artist which in turn is a role we may or may not play throughout our lives. We are Artists only when we create Art. The rest of the time is occupied by whichever other roles we may choose to play as human beings in this life. So we may very well be Artists and then turn into pseudo-artist exhibiting our work to the public, or to merchants selling out our work to the highest bidder. We may very well be everything that we can or want to be. Hesse dixit.
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Mary Reveryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16467046358329455629noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-546507016205707621.post-71896176769369239762013-03-01T04:29:00.001-08:002013-07-02T22:36:14.414-07:00Swallow the Sun<div style="margin: 0 auto; text-align: justify; width: 601px;">
<b>Yesterday, I discovered a swallow had been making the Mega Image around my house its humble abode for the past 3 days.</b>
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The workers seemed unperturbed by this odd presence when I mentioned it to them. The swallow, also, didn't seem bothered by the odd human abundance around its crib whilst nibbling on bread crumbs and flying around the isles... </b>
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So I myself went about my business, learning to incorporate the dissonance into the mundane.
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Mary Reveryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13802886760870240513noreply@blogger.comRomania44.487389687976176 26.04346409531262944.124585687976179 25.398017095312628 44.850193687976173 26.68891109531263tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-546507016205707621.post-9501647651728384712013-02-08T14:33:00.000-08:002013-05-13T12:42:22.202-07:00I must keep a blog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's big, it's black, and it's closed, as is my soul.</span></h4>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's a wardrobe because it stores all and displays parts.</span></h4>
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Mary Reveryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13802886760870240513noreply@blogger.comBucharest, Romania44.488677160218195 26.05342158749999744.125883160218194 25.407974587499996 44.851471160218196 26.698868587499998