When life is at its most exalted, the dream is furthest from hand.
Art should not be divine inspiration. Nor a yearning for the hereafter, the eternal, the sublime. It’s never a way to truth, wisdom, immortality or a reason for living.
Characterized by the overproduction of images, the necessity of importance of art in society, has much in common with naive primitive association, intended to produce eloquent imperfection.
My encounter has precluded an alternative passion with apocalyptic pictorial construction; an obsession with death as a redemptive melodramatic catharsis of what is fatal, while claiming to be ambivalent towards the thirst for instinctive intensity. Creation is not reason, just chagrin.
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