All In, Cool Kids

 Cosplay Artists and AI Slop

    The question is not, “What is art?”, it’s what you’ll leave behind that holds the truth of you’ve created; and to what extent your knowledge of life has reached; from both the seen and hidden worlds and with whatever medium you choose, do it with honesty and real understanding of all the tools we’ve been given — and a little study of the mechanics and the history of art helps.

    Because of this dull questioning that has plagued this fairly new concept we call “art-scene”, a long history of corruption and devilish greed has spoiled the term art; simply asking a question or daring to defy to understand such abstract concepts and realities, this doesn’t get you anywhere you haven’t been before and it’s that which we do this, to see what we’re capable of without going over the edge that appears to fall further below the more time passes.

    What’s more obvious is that certain people have come to realize is that art can be commodified, versions of art that can set them “financially free”, so they jump into the crowded pool and push out the same ideas and products; they tell themselves it’s expression but their personality depends on the attention and the monetary gains; they read or watch content of famous artists from the past and see the price tags etched onto classic pieces, then decide they can do it too and maybe they’ be remembered — more attention even after life. They go to university to study it, to copy it, to replicate it with a slight tweak in pastel shades, or thinner lacquered Venetian Reds, and the same portrait of some idolised celebrity.

The Horrors of War: The Same c. 1810–20 - Francisco de Goya

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    What I want to know is, why? Why choose to do this if it means not delving into the depths of the human experience, past the safety net the mind sets for us (regardless of free will, there is that which holds us sane), and why not peek behind the heavy curtain over your heart to see what makes you, you. With this first insight into the world within and outward, we begin the journey not only of the normal path but also of the creative, intellectual (if fortunate enough to gain it continuously), and the painful stress of choosing to do this art thing after we’re long gone.

    No, don’t let gloomy, and this shouldn’t bum anyone out, this rawness we find within ourselves is what should be used to transform the material world into beauty from the chaos, (or vice versa). I think of the ancient sculptors and the perfection of their marble works. I think of the times they lived in, no phones or internet! Just a reality where raw imagination had to contend with the harsh, brutal world around them.

    And yet in today’s artists’ world, we are inundated with AI slop and the Warhol Soup copy of the copy of the copy…These new “artists” that explicitly make it known they are an artist and immediately send you a link to their shop, is a redflag — in my opinion this is what turns me away, yet if it’s helping those few that need it to survive, fine — but there are leeches in this lake pool, they’ll tear and push down those others scratching for the fabricated top tiers, reaching for that made up nostalgia of being dead and famous, and getting their art up at Sotheby’s. While art fades, peels, and crumbles…(if it’s not all backed up by dirty billions and a bunker somewhere.)

                                Korinthos Statues

    

Autumn. or the learning of this for that.

    

    Stan Michels, a six-foot-two varsity football captain, sat by the university's lake, attempting to read to prevent the sun from going down; he thought that he could slow time by entering another world. As long as he could trick his perception on time to make it seem like the day was slowing, he would be satisfied. But something revolutionary happened to him that week; it added some new things within his soul – but in return, it took away much greater and more important things. He wished to be smarter, a genius in fact, and he would do anything to get it. Only just a week ago, he sought out a shaman. He paid for a great change; he asked for brains, something that had always made him self-conscious.   

    If you sold your soul to the devil, would you remember?

    He was waking up in that moment, surprising himself, with eyes squinting up at the bright white of the sun. Somehow, the details in that old proverb of selling your soul for something in exchange, just like they say Mr. Johnson did to gain mastery of the guitar, there is fine print to read, and most of it goes ignored. He felt small, almost weightless, sitting in the grass, rubbing his eyes to clear them from the hazy glaze.  

    In his mind's eye, the people around him (the few hanging around the lake) were not separate from each other but had a shared force, or substance that connected like a gelatin rope from one person to another. And he could see this now, as he sat up looking around. The beauty of the aura in the spring air and the surroundings; it breathed with syncopated jazzy rhythms and glowed like an opal in a low opacity; an otherwise hidden scene was now on full display with this new outlook on life. 

    He was beginning to be aware of his own body; his legs felt thin and appeared puny; along with his arms and torso, all a meager build than that of the once athletic and strong body he had just had only minutes ago.    

    And yet, with this surge in empathy and feelings of goodwill, through the picture-perfect day, there was this bleak overcast hanging above him like a tomb made of ice. He began to understand that with a better view of the world, with all the minor and major symbolisms and answers that he had to offer, within society and of oneself, there was something with greater or equal value that had to be, or had been traded in its place. This unconditional love for everyone came about at the precise moment when our clocks on earth began their omniscient countdown.

Was it too late? 

         "I am becoming like stone," He mumbled under his breath while a gaggle of geese passed honking, without paying mind to his presence.

    "My whole being, down to my cells and atoms, has become solid. Paused at a standstill, a bumper-to-bumper rest of my entire physical being. It happened slowly, like water slowly forming into ice. My body and mind and even that metaphysical self have been transforming for years, in a loop that plays back previous incarnations of age, and now it has apexed and finalized to a form not unlike a boulder. I would get out, but there's no place to go. Always remember that whatever we've learned from our past cannot be applied to our future, but only used to avoid or go headlong towards the possibilities. The next season to pass could contain a few possibilities, both from inside and outside of our being, but it cannot be forced to change to our will...right?" 

    How that haunting death never truly leaves, lying deep within the wash of the mind, the body, the soul in earth's tides. Like a jaguar being idle, ever so creeping, watching, studying our every move. Brief attacks of sadness pierce our hearts and our whole being when we least expect them. We should strive to never let the enemy take control of our own happiness. We forcibly ignore the negative, pushing it down so deep it comes out like spittle from an ancient volcano that makes us believe we're not in control. But to react or not, that is our last resort; it can be that which saves or breaks us in this mortal world. To not allow a split second to decide our entire life's path. We are faster than that.  

    Part of the problem is that we acknowledge there is a problem, yet still proceed without evaluating the problem further...