The Triumph of the Individual Over Art

            Art exists only if one is not afraid to bleed for it; it’s a selfish devourer, as love. Photography, film, literature, sculpting all hold within its history artists who have seen only triumph in their careers, never over art itself. Modigliani asphyxiated, Tchaikovsky drank his own fate contaminated with cholera while Dylan Thomas just drank himself to death. Art is not a rival to one’s personal life because it is greater than one life.

            Even after life is over, an artists life is an unstable one, still haunting the pages of their last works carried on into the future by the stream of parallel inertia.  To all things outward, art will reign dominant, the ruins will outlive us all, the crater of our fall will remain stamped in the earth as monuments that will be visited and revisited for centuries to come.

            Death is no more the moment when one’s life comes to an end, one single moment. That one moment is feared by those held in captivity, fearful of what lies behind what is not seen, inasmuch the theory of what is not seen could bring about that moment. Art gives us the chance to live for the moment, to chance the height we can soar before we fall again back to the earth into our original chalked outlines. The fall is no merely a dispassionate accumulation, it is a gradual process; it takes its stand in space and budges only when we have tasted the earth. That taste, the clays of the earth, will be the end of all biographies and autobiographies.

Is it truly trivial that artists of today and of the past saw their deaths? Predicted their deaths? Saw the impending swing of the pendulum and refused to dodge it in a space so narrow that breathing itself had begun its inward decompression? Only those pierced by art will die of art, those bled dry of its prophecy, its proverbs, its poetics, its madness, only those who have gone around the world only to arrive at its tarmac. Man can be judged by his character, his momentum towards his own true disposition, his own reflection; if he chooses to ignore it, he only ignores what is viable, what is pivotal for him to survive his next endeavor to survive. Tortured self-doubt is the central image of one at their bare humanness and even in this humanness, art can derive from a molar pregnancy.

In the very search for self, the inward charter to truth, we can find an artist broken only by a self-imposing state of fragility.

Dontrell Lovet't

from, [To Whom All Humanity is Dreaming]

[The Exterminating Dream III] Moveable Easels

            A true artistic ideal is the one that obliterates all in the name of its very creation; the artist, is this creative animal that lives a quiet life amongst the noise, behaving only recklessly on paper and canvas. With every urge to create arrives a frantic urge to recreate, what they have created and what has been created by another, ideal in need of updates, albums left to wither and denied their right to bloom in a new generations forfeiting their own right to turn around, take a step back and discover what it is that caused what they love today to become.

            Every man (anthropos) must account for their bruises and heal those very wounds if indeed they are to move past them; the artist deny such healing, expose the grotesque of the deep, impacted injury, photography, paint it, describe the hideous preludes and epilogues surrounding the impact, becomes the wound and becomes beautiful because of them. The trends of today, they are embrace and are happily left to be had by the sycophants fixed on being misers of gray matter; the art of yesterday becomes the billboards for the artist of today to not aspire to become as, to be aspire to become as they are, as for every individual, comes an individual stylism unique to their personality, their environment, fears, indifference and ambivalences, the very thing that breeds them.

[The Exterminating Dream II] The Independent Artist

 We often hear the word "genius" used in reference to great ideas, great inventions and short-lived trends, but what is genius?

By Webster's definition, Genius is defined as "a very smart or talented person : a person who has a level of talent or intelligence that is very rare or remarkable."

There is truth in Webster's definition but little is mentioned beforehand to the aspiring aiming to make their names known. To know of genius academically is only partial, one must learn by harsh experience what genius requires. 

Thomas Edison once said that "genius is 10% aspiration, 90% perspiration" meaning genius is not just one great idea, one great invention, one great trend or one great article, it's sacrifice, its hard work, thousands of hours of unwavering dedication. No one knows this better than independent artists, those without network contacts to the mainstream or those who refused to play the game of the mainstream. According to most consumers and agents, an artist is only as good as their last work.

To remain relevant, to consistently joust for your right to shine, for your art to be an anomaly, an independent artist must abide by the simple notion of  "Publish or perish, produce or be reduced."

The dream of art is for all as art is for all. There are legions of great artists the world over has never known and many who were only known posthumously. Hither or thither, an artist has only their art to display their identity, their pathology, an extermination dream that refuses to allow them sleep until it itself has life, thus demanding life.

[Art & Outrage] Art, Menace & the Modules of Madness

Art reproduces as the cell, as our cells, becomes immortal by our own mortal hands; we envy its lack of date of expiration.

It is possible in this hatred, we lash out, displace rage upon the world inasmuch art cannot be murdered; we aspire to create a legacy and as certain mothers do certain offspring, despise their very becoming from their bodies and loves the prior or preceding without question nor restraint.

Haunted since the first dream in utero, the artist begets not art but madness in various, vicarious sorts, adorned in battle dress to march out against the dream that has long made them a pariah, caused the wedge between them and the norm, exterminated the falsities the human condition is likely to attach as a parasite. This condition of the human race beckons them one direction but they stray to the opposite, advises a move and they loiter, signals self-preservation and death descends in a torrential fault. Art is inherent in the artist, it is not a choice; to attempt to abandon it, is but an unheard scream for help in a desolate world, an introduction to mortal misery and weakness; to give up their disposition is to become human and thus possessing human fragility, human simplicity.

The implements of self-impalement are but few effective, as one summoning by intonations the angel of eternal sleep. Film is the one true line in which to view the plausibility at the future, of a future, and what can become of it. What cannot become of it, whose to say, we can only speak of the then and now and not with confidence the latter and later. A leap of faith is determined only once the erroneous, one-sided ignorance of this world is relinquished and all avenues subject to the abject are considered, given a diverse spectacle, grown and nurtured at its distances.

One work of art is not the entirety of the artist, it is a fracture of the fragmented dream migrated in all direction. We don't know if Rimbaud was the figure literature has made his memory to be, nor do we know if Kafka ever intended to share with the world his journals and letters; what we do know is that the world desired their ghosts.

Dontrell Lovet't

from, [To Whom All Humanity is Dreaming]