“Some pay strict attention. Others, only as it pertains to them. The difference between the two…sometimes, pastel, sometimes, decadent, other times…subtle.
Through the abuse, I learned to treasure the arts…it had been my head’s start. The pose, the poetry, the watered down doorways. The joy I found with some. Those who will even leave it up to self interrogation.
And, a few scratch my soul…remain nails to a chalkboard.
As attendees, only slow prods are what we need. Hence, by design, another group flourishes…and, yet, another sect begins to believe.
Black and white and scary, have always been my most intimate. And, yes, there are more prolific ways to share my personal tastes…more basic…more platonic.
Architects, funding basic instincts. Providing us all with a common link. Keeping raw humanity…in sync”
“Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotion know what it means to want to escape from these.”
Many moons ago, I used to travel with my father…once a year, to NYC. This somewhat unnerving adventure, started at five in morning…and, did not end until about one the following morning.
I say, unnerving, only because my father bears watching in the very quaint town of Canterbury, New Hampshire…where he resides.
Therefore, taking his somewhat over the top, sarcastic, elderly, rustic persona, into the heart of Manhattan; took patience, the ability to multi task and a touch of spirituality. In less poetic terms, it was similar to taking an unruly child and unleashing him or her…in a pen full of puppies with issues.
Though, the bus ride was often long and tiresome. And, my father, who has OCD, needed constant redirection, when it came to his need to monitor the bathroom,…I will never be able to replace what I learned on those trips.
Thus, we visited every art museum we could place our liberal art, feet at.
Never a fan of Picasso or Jackson Pollock…I relish in the idea that ‘art of any sort…can expand the mind.’
Lessons of the masters to enjoy, and to use my own imagination. And, though, I may not agree with the substance matter…I am encouraged to envision how it stirs me.
‘The aim of art, the aim of life can only be to increase the sum of freedom and responsibility to be found in everyone and the world. It cannot, under any circumstances, be to reduce or suppress that freedom, even temporarily…No great work has ever been based on hatred and contempt. On the contrary, there is not a single true work of art that has not in the end added to the inner freedom of each person who has known and loved it’
‘Oh, I don’t know…maybe it’s about a woman who lost her mother in a house fire or…a young teen confused over their sexual identity…’
What does it mean to you?
‘It could be anything. It could be a good day at the beach. It could have been the way I felt when my partner attempted to take her life…guess I’m not sure. It means a lot to me…though. I know that with certainty! I suppose it has too many meanings to me! That’s why I can’t stop looking. Stop wondering and imagining…how things could have been.’
What does it mean to you?
‘It means anything you want it to. It means that I feel free. It means I feel hot….like how one feels lying on a dry desert like beach. Watching the gray waves over take the world. At least, the world that surrounds the beholder. I suppose it feels like that…and when I think of having to live somewhere like…Montana!’
What does it say? At least…to you?
‘My partner told me the poem is about Mother Nature. I think the poet had been thinking about growing up poor. How a set of stairs in one house may seem like they are built of diamonds…but where the writer lived…the stairs were more akin to fraying shag carpeting. The kind of rug you find in apartment buildings that were built-in the 1960’s. To me the poem speaks to the way it felt to be one my own. And, that very first apartment I lived in. It smelled of cat piss and there had been wall to wall shag carpeting in the bathroom. The bathroom with the kind of shower stall you find in campground restrooms. So, I guess, it takes me back to a time where there had been a feeling of being vulnerable it a good scary way…’
What of art? Where has it taken us? What has it done for us? And, more importantly, where does it take us from here?
To me, quite simply…it takes me back to a memory. I had seen my very first Diane Arbus photo. There had been an exhibit at the Met or Boston Museum or some little movie or something like that. Immediately…I felt I had found home. I had come face to face with what I had been meant to do. Which of course…had been writing.
Diane Arbus hadn’t been a poet or novelist. She took photos of Freaks. For she felt a bit of freak herself. Sitting behind the shadow of her husband’s art. She found comfort with those who society had brushed under the rug. Her pictures were so heart-felt. So telling. Telling of someone’s struggles and rebirth. Their heartaches and scars. A large group of individuals whose story had been told by a housewife. Therefore, by proxy, Diane had been distracting-ly abnormal herself.
It was then that I found meaning to art and to artists themselves. They are the forever searchers of things, thoughts, feelings that can be painted or put into a sentence…but come out the other side with no meaning what so ever…Other than what it means to the audience.
TheCertifiablyTRUERavingsOfASectionedPhilosopher: Don't be afraid to think you might be a little 'crazy'. Who isn't? Check out some of my visualized poems here: https://www.instagram.com/maxismaddened/