When Atlas’ daughter shrugged

Reality is overrated, of course, we know.

Finally home, with the first frost. The scratches of the squirrels on the window slowly died down, their claws otherwise busy. I learned preaching to the deaf is a hopeless pursuit, almost as if their mind reaches a ceiling, while my mind doesn’t even have a roof.

A valuable extract on pleasure, purpose and the creative:

You know I had often wondered how long it takes you to resize and colour the little xxx at the end of your messages…

Silly but I really only understood this morning that while you showed me the direction, the journey is my own.
Creating for my own pleasure is not a gain of any sort, even writing doesn’t give me pleasure (as in your definition). It’s a painful process of giving birth to something you cannot define, and once born it has to be nurtured while it’s growing over time.

We have a very different understanding of the creative process. The majority of people play or listen for their own pleasure, what’s unique about this?
It’s the first sign of normality I see in you.

Labelling something art doesn’t make it art, mere interpretation doesn’t make something art (think of literary criticism which interprets all the time, is that art?). Interpretation is only the smallest part of art, the greatest is the unique output – that’s where the strain and true purpose comes in. If we stop with interpretation, then you haven’t created anything new, you only followed millions of others in the same footsteps.

Could I live with myself knowing I play just for the sake of someone else, myself or being someone else?
It’s a concept which took 15 years to form, and the last three weeks to crystalise. I expect I’ll be able to form a clear purpose for my new creative pursuit within the coming weeks.
A significant change in focus for my creative life.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.