Something to Say

I hung my art upon the wall, a series of lines in graphite.
I stood back slowly comparing myself, to others here in the lime light.
Yes it was good, just as it should, showcasing myself so nicely.
But what of these scowls these grimacing cows, this contest, it seems so pricey.

I sat in my seat struck by the beat, so fast paced and yet shockingly dull.
at my shoulder he sat, adjusted his hat, and cleared throat within the lul.
"Have you something to say?" he asked me. "What do you mean?" I responded quite kirt.
"Why have you come here? Why do you draw?" he clarified for what is was worth.

"I just don't know how to say it." "That's not what I asked" he replied.
"I have something to say and I'll say it someday, but fingers seem tied at the moment."
"Then say it you must, and you'll say it I trust" he said with hope in his voice.
I pulled out each pin and started to grin, for I now had a staggering choice.

After a critique in my drawing class today my teacher turned to me and asked if I had something to say.  I hesitated wondering if he wanted me to defend my work.  I told him that I didn't know what he meant.  He clarified that he wanted to know if I had something to tell the world through my art, he wanted to know if there was any of me in these pieces or if they were completely devoid of communication.  I told him that I am unsure of how to say it.  He said that is not what he asked.  He repeated the question and I told him that yes I do have something to say.  He said good, and that he has seen it, but he wants to see it more.  I sat there for a moment wondering upon the things that he had said.   Curious, I thought. Curious.

Went King

WHAT MAKES IT ART?

When I a lonely peasant boy, who cannot speak of greatness,

sits and draws a castle scene on the dirty floor and faces,

when I can paint a mural great and take the awe of many

but what of all the art I do, when I recognize not any.

But princes in the palace walls, with careless hands of thumbs,

paint pictures of the most grotesque, and smeared with royal plumbs,

when princesses throw a tantrum flinging art across the page,

and all who see it marvel, oh such insight, oh such grace.

What is art my comrades? Is it skill that is defined?

Is art about the politics, or the artist's frame of mind?

I do not know, nor shall I ever, put art into a word,

for art is whispered in our ears, to define would be absurd.

While we were coloring scales in my drawing class the question was posed to us "what criteria exists for good art?" We sat for a moment in silence considering the question before one kid raised his hand and said that he thought it had to do with how much time and effort went into it.  I mentioned that I disagreed.  I said that I thought that art had to do a lot more with the statement that it made or the way it made you feel or change regardless of how much time it took.  We then proceeded to argue about whether or not that was one criteria that made art what it is.  I argued for the idea of art being a mechanism to change your paradigm while my professor played devils advocate and brought up what examples would not fit into that category.  In conjunction with this, my professor told us an interesting story.

His son had been on a flight and an older couple came and sat down next to him and his wife.  The older man, having only been seated a minute, lifted one cheek and passed gas in the direction of this younger couple.  The wife of my professor's son said in a hushed voice "honey, that man just passed gas on me!" to which the son replied "he is old" as if that were excuse enough.  

My professor went on to say that by doing that his son had completely ostracized this old man from society.  By allowing this to happen he had placed this old man in a position where he could never be a part of society again.  We do the same thing by putting old people in retirement homes.  We do this to them because they are not socially acceptable, because they are no longer capable of conforming to the common ideas.  So what does this have to do with art?  Art tends to be nothing more than what the masses say it is.  Art depends on the social status of the time.  Art becomes what society says it is.  There have been visionaries that have changed society through their art, but on average art isn't what it does to society, but rather art is what society has done to us.  When are we able to step back and ask if we are creating what society wants us to, or if we are seeking to change their paradigm?  What we decide to do has a lasting influence on the person we are.  Some will make the argument that we are not fit to be in society because we no longer know how to contribute but rather we are writing off our rambunctious behavior on the fact that we are "artists".  It is a fine line, and we all must make the choice between social acceptance or being ostracized.  We do it to ourselves. 

They Laugh At Me

They Laugh At Me

Stoicism and Mediocrity

I woke this morning and flew away, across the barren sea,

the others sat and watched me go, and others laughed at me.

They glared me down as jealous inmates, watch one leave the cell

I floated away across the morning, and here my thoughts I tell.

There were others plugging fast, to overtake my rise,

They pulled and climbed and scraped and mimed to try and win the prize.

They came in twos in groups and murders and some they laughed at me,

but amid confusion I took flight, and felt like I was free.

I breached the atmosphere at last, I left them all behind,

and then I saw the black ahead, and solace did I find.

I cut the engine, and fell back down, because I now could see,

I missed the way they all would stare, and some would laugh at me.

I find myself among them now, oh, how I try to blend.

Some would claim I am the same, on perspective it depends.

And on the shelf of purpose, I found what I could be,

Among rows of mediocrity, they still would laugh at me.

It started out as a simple project in 2D Design that went a little haywire.  The problem to create compelling images out of nothing but black and white paper while illustrating the principles of unity: Proximity, continuation, and repetition, came as a challenge.  I do not claim to be the person this poem speaks of, neither do I have a specific person in mind.  But I believe that we all can relate to this person.  At some point in our lives an intense fever of passion rips across our consciousness and we see for a moment the height of what we can be.  We see that others also have ambition, dreams and opportunities, but surely none could rival this passionate fever we feel now.  We rise, we climb, we fight and pull, until one day, the fever breaks.  We see that our passion has shut doors, cut ties, and essentially left us alone.  Being alone doesn't bother us, in fact, we have fought for this moment when we could operate free of all distraction.  This is the opportunity to be exactly what we have the potential to be...but that is not how it works.  Passion meets reason and we cut the engine.  We fall back to earth where we meet those that realized what we took so long to: 

  Passion is a poison when left uncontrolled, ambition is a 

  tragedy, just waiting to be told.

We fell for it, but we dont regret it.  We settle into our place, ready to be normal and live an amazing life...but it has change us.  The fever that ripped through us has left us something different.  They may laugh...but we are happy about who we have become.  We are unique.  Passion is the sickness that I would never give back, no matter how bad it hurts.