TWO ARTISTS, TWO GREEK SALADS, TWO SMALL BOWLS OF UNAPPETIZING CHICKPEAS, AND ONE SELTZER LATER…
Hillside diner at 7:15 pm. See you soon.
You know those conversations that no matter how many times you explain to someone, they simply don’t get it? Despite knowing you better than you know yourself, you can’t get the words out to properly do justice to the conversation you’ve been having in your head for the last few weeks? The conversations that are by far the hardest to express without coming off as condescending or rude because there’s no nice way to say: You don’t fucking get it because you’re not an artist.
Not that I am some grand artist or have any form of recognition to my name, I am simply another fool waiting on my big idea. As I’ve mentioned in my previous blog posts for those who read them, I’ve started to understand that being an artist is a state of mind. It’s seeing a show, hearing a song, watching your mom follow the same recipe and thinking of a painting, a sketch, an idea. It’s seeing inspiration in the unordinary and adding your inherently unoriginal touch to make it yours. It’s the perfect amount of larceny without actually being incarcerated and being celebrated instead because you’ve managed to combine whatever generic identity you’ve taken on in this lifetime with some already thought of concept, idea, painting, etc. Because as much as it kills me NOTHING IS FUCKING ORIGINAL.
I guess you could follow whatever cliche and say as long as it’s yours, it’s original. But nothing in this lifetime or world is ours to claim. Every idea, feeling, thought we could potentially have is a direct result of something we’ve known into existence or some pre-existing concept that has trickled down into every part of our brain. So what do you do now? Do you wait till someone has some ridiculous original idea like printing out Instagram photos that belong to other artists and pinning them up in a gallery? No shame to Richard Prince, we agree to the terms and conditions of Instagram. Yes, I completely agree with letting other people profit off my face for artistic recognition and fame that somewhat belongs to me because it’s my Instagram post, but whatever. Of course, that couldn’t be my original and groundbreaking idea because I was too busy wondering if the world we live in is actual and not some poor imitation of the real one. Cause for some reason I can’t help but think that there is more. This just can’t be it.
I hate to quote the Verve, and their one pretty catchy song, Bittersweet Symphony, but please gimme more than the life I see. I’m stuck. I need there to be more. I need to know if there is more than the world I see. I need to know if outside this shit imitation that there is a real-world where our ideas our unchanging and eternal. You’d think these thoughts would stir up an idea, a painting, just anything. But of course, I had to think myself into a rut. None of these feelings are actually mine because they are common side effects of being an artist. I just want to know if my generation will have an expressionist movement, or to my disbelief a dadaist movement? Or please just answer me and tell me who the next Pollock is? Do we even have one? Or does a modern Klimt exist? Better yet, maybe the art of our times’ are simply shitty Dumas paintings. Who knows. What I do know is that I can leave this diner a little less unfulfilled, a lot happier, and a slight bit teary-eyed. As I say goodbye to one of my favorite people, in the purple lit parking spot, I know that this is all I could ever ask for and more.
HIM: “MAKE ART”
ME: “YOU TOO!”
HIM: “PICK A DAY!”
The final conversation is short and genuine. We laugh, hug, and I drive away in my small, electric blue fiat.