On Art

Perhaps a true statement: A lyric essay flows very quickly in all different directions.

It is interesting when we begin to think about organized thought, our brain as our map and our map [is] our brain. Follow exact directions and the destination will present itself as simply as it appears. 

If a constrained essay presents itself to us as a navigation system, a lyric essay presents itself as a fine friend and I driving a black Toyota pick-up down a cliff-side in search of an isolated party haven in the woods. We are laughing and meowing and screaming and rather dramatically unsure of the outcome. Occasionally a friend’s madness is wisdom, and an essay’s madness is adventure. Occasionally all things are reversible, and nothing is very much as it seems, and when we reach the bottom which tends to look like the top, we understand more about ourselves and of course we understand nothing. 

If we were to surgically remove our mind from our brain, I believe we would in fact have a concrete road map. Perhaps in doing so our lives would be simpler, the universe would be simpler, and we would know many things. The destination would present itself quite as simply as it appears. It often happens that we surgically remove our brain from our mind. The outcome is poetry, and our brain cannot begin to recognize it. Few of us have the strength to avoid our brain gnawing at our mind for long enough to understand any poetry at all. What our mind understands is the direction each individual travels. It understands this because it is aware there is no possible way of seeing it, only a hint at feeling its presence. But then few of us have the intelligence to mediate our brain and our mind in order to create organized art: the “lyrical” essay.

When first scribbled, the lyrical essay is the beautiful infinity of the mind. But, soon revised by the brain that desires to connect with many other minds, the essay becomes quality – organized train of thought. Indeed, something which does not exist, but renders that foolish feeling of experimental arrangement.

We may observe a painting, or an etching, or some kind of sculptural creation with much scrutiny. We may consider ourselves higher than what appears to be a third grade scrawl; superior of mind. We may be correct. What the artist has profited from may insult us because we have paid to see art in action. We have paid to see pure-organized-art. Bread & Puppet proclaims, “Art is FOOD. We cannot EAT it but it FEEDS us.” We need it, but we cannot understand it.

We are asked the question: “What is art?” We answer: “Art pleases us.” “Art is beautiful.” “Art provokes thought.” We are being asked the wrong question. If the question lies: “What is thought?” We answer: “Thought is pure.” “Thought is inspiration.” “Thought is art.” Have we now reached greater understanding? No, what we have reached is only more questions. Thought is art.

I draw in charcoal, because a mark is erasable but remains. I embrace the thick black chalk on my palms and elbows, ashen freedom. I etch and print, soaking up the smells of solvents and inks, and allowing them to saturate my skin. I type, correcting as I go, revising and cutting and pouring over notes. I am consumed, and it consumes me. I obsess. If art is food I am starving. If art feeds me I am over-fed. If thought is art, I am an artist, but if art is thought, I over-think.