Narrative, hermetic or lavish, is our touchstone and the only artistic strategy capable of uncloaking us to ourselves. It is the visual equivalent of revealed religion. All artworks worthy of consideration are purposing toward the same realization; confession. The moment art attempts philosophy (crudely drawn) or science (sadly naive) it is an admission of failure.
Our desire to win praise, lure the unwitting, garner sympathy, or the dozen different façades we mount in order to account ourselves finer than we know ourselves to be are all evidence that we are unfit to recognize, and fearful to tell, the truth. Art attempts to remove these veneers.
Each life is a negotiation between its ambitions and its fears, an attempt to distance noble flesh from its verso of corrupted meat. So we balance, head swiveling, divulging each side's secrets to the other. Art is the transcript of that conversation.
Our desire to win praise, lure the unwitting, garner sympathy, or the dozen different façades we mount in order to account ourselves finer than we know ourselves to be are all evidence that we are unfit to recognize, and fearful to tell, the truth. Art attempts to remove these veneers.
Each life is a negotiation between its ambitions and its fears, an attempt to distance noble flesh from its verso of corrupted meat. So we balance, head swiveling, divulging each side's secrets to the other. Art is the transcript of that conversation.
