Artists make attractive protagonists because they’re driven. They pursue their passions despite the odds, odds that are rife with conflict. The chips are stacked against them. You can’t paint your student loan checks away. You can’t sing your credit score higher. You can’t pay your electric bill with a poem, believe me I’ve tried. Artists are society’s underdogs. We love to root for the losers. The dreamers who just don’t want to wake up.
The hero with the artistic temperament, doesn’t always change at the end of the story. Sometimes they change our expectations instead.
This is why I’ve decided to start my blog with a series of works about art. Art about the value of art itself. About the lunacy that goes into its creation. About the honesty of its intent. About the method of its birth. About the relationship between the creator and the viewer. Art that stares back at you.
There is no artist’s statement because the piece itself is the artist’s statement. It’s a mirror gazing in upon itself in an endless feedback loop.
Turns out I’ve written a lot of pieces like this over the years. Short stories about stories that kill their readers (i.e. The Book of Mirrors, don’t worry I’ll post it). Poems that threaten to posses anyone who finishes them (Eye Poison, do worry when I post this). Song lyrics that address the listener’s feelings and disregard those of its creator (Mr. Song). Allow me to dust off a few of these works and give them a proper showing. Experience them knowing they’re entirely about the experience. They’re self-referential (wow, I can’t believe how up my own ass that sounds upon reading it).
To steal a writing device from Chuck Palahniuk:
“Meta” might not be the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.
I love it when singers refuse to explain their lyrics, they don’t want to corrupt your interpretation. Its close to their heart, but they know the moment they publish it, it no longer belongs to them.
Its the song not the singer. The joke not the comedian. The story and not the teller. Its okay to like something and think its creator is an asshole.
During my first gallery showing, I paced around my drawings eavesdropping. The patrons loved the work, but that affection didn’t transfer to artist. Now I know how Dr. Frankenstein felt, upstaged by his own creation.
That’s okay. These pieces are from me, they’re not about me. They’re about you. You’ll notice a lot of pieces written in the second person. That’s because you’re the protagonist. Isn’t it about time someone wrote something that honored you for reading it?
Keep reading to find out what happens to you.