posted June 16, 2007 10:02 AM         

“…the world has gone nutty and art always paints the spirit of its times. Rodin died about the time the world started flipping its lid. His successors noted the amazing things he had done with light and shadow and mass and composition and they copied that part. What they failed to see was that the master told stories that laid bare the human heart. They became contemptuous of painting or sculpture that told stories – they dubbed such work ‘literary.’ They went all out for abstractions.”
Jubal shrugged. “Abstract design is all right – for wallpaper or linoleum. But art is the process of evoking pity and terror. What modern artists do is pseudo-intellectual masturbation. Creative art is intercourse, in which the artist renders emotional his audience. These laddies who won’t deign to do that – or can’t – lost the public. The ordinary bloke will not buy ‘art’ that leaves him unmoved…
“Jubal, I’ve always wondered why I didn’t give a hoot for art. I thought it was something missing in me.”
“Mmmm, one does have to learn to look at art. But it’s up to the artist to use language that can be understood. Most of these jokers don’t want to use language you and I can learn; they would rather sneer because we ‘fail’ to see what they are driving at. If anything. Obscurity is the refuge of incompetence.”

posted June 16, 2007 11:22 AM         

Whatever it may be, speaking, writing or art if people don't sense heart, feeling or love and passion for life in it, the audience is unmoved.

posted June 16, 2007 12:12 PM         

The Golden Age of Antiquity is full of writers who were known for the "manly simplicity" and down-to-earth candor of their prose. Seneca is my favorite. But it must be accounted to their favor that the things they spoke of were not simple matters, and they sacrificed very little in artistry to accomplish this streamlined prose. I can think of only three great "modern" authors who were known for the simplicity, the purity, and the colloquial nature of their prose; Tolstoy, Montaigne, and Andre Gide.

Tolstoy wrote a famous essay, "What is Art?", in which he argued that the sole purpose of art (or, that which he deemed worthy of the name "art") is to instruct the masses in the basic moral principles. What good is a masterpiece, he argued, which only a handful of people in the world can make sense of? And there is some truth in this. But, it must be noted that, the few who are capable of understanding such a work become the mouthpieces, translators, and distributors of its contents to the rest of humanity, through their own works, which are highly influenced by the more subtle and exquisite work.

Marcel Proust, often regarded by intellectuals as the greatest writer of our century, wrote in a style which is extremely difficult to follow, with the consequence that Proust is perhaps the least widely read among great authors today. Having his Ascendant in Aries (conjunct Neptune), he became a pioneer, destined to exert a powerful influence on other writers and thinkers, who would then convert his discoveries for mass consumption. Proust was admired as a genius among geniuses. His audience was small, but his impact was utterly profound. His prose was thick, juicy, and meaty, to be sure, and it was necessary that other great minds should chew and regurgitate it, in a sense, for the enlightenment of the public. His gift to the world is yet to be fully appreciated, and may never be. Proust could take a scene which other authors might spend several pages on, and, entering into the minutia of it so completely, return with more than a hundred pages of staggering insights and treasures. For this reason, he wrote only one novel, more than 4,000 pages long (and worth every word). He went further and deeper than the others, and, from the falling of a pigeon, was able to deduce and illuminate the vast spectrum of nature. His sentences, twisting and coiling around themselves, are like gorgeous pieces of music, and, for the person capable of navigating their course, they reveal an absolutely unparalleled delicacy of feeling, subtlety of intellect, and precision of expression. What other authors might take whole books to say, he said in a paragraph or a sentence; it is for the capable reader to decide for him or herself whether it is more rewarding to read an entire book full of uncomplicated sentences, or a single paragraph written by Marcel Proust. He had the mind of a great scientist, and the soul of a great poet, and the marriage of the two gave birth to something never witnessed before or since.

When Gide discovered the riches in Proust's incomparable style, he remarked that, now, all he could see in the much-praised "simplicity and purity" of his own prose was poverty and lack of penetration. (But, then, there is something to be said for the "poor in spirit".) Even such a mind as Gide's was slow to recognize the genius before him, in the pages of Proust's masterwork. He said it was the greatest error of his life, and he wondered how many other men of genius he would have failed to recognize, had he been their contemporary, as he was Proust's.

posted June 16, 2007 12:17 PM         

Of all that is written, I love only what a man has written with his blood. Write with blood, and you will find that blood is spirit.

It is no easy task to understand unfamiliar blood; I hate reading idlers.

He who knows the reader, does nothing for the reader. Another century of readers- and spirit itself will stink.

That everyone is allowed to learn to read, ruins in the long run not only writing but also thinking.

Once spirit was God, then it became man, and now it even becomes rabble.

He that writes in blood and aphorisms does not want to be read, but learnt by heart.

In the mountains the shortest way is from peak to peak, but for that route you must have long legs. Aphorisms should be peaks, and those spoken to should be tall and lofty.

The atmosphere rare and pure, danger near and the spirit full of a joyful wickedness: these things go well together.

I want to have goblins about me, for I am courageous. Courage which scares away ghosts, creates goblins for itself- it wants to laugh.

I no longer feel as you do; the very cloud which I see beneath me, the blackness and heaviness at which I laugh- that is your thunder-cloud.

You look aloft when you long for exaltation; and I look downward because I am exalted.

Who among you can at the same time laugh and be exalted?

He who climbs high mountains, laughs at all tragic plays and tragic realities.

Brave, unconcerned, mocking, violent- thus wisdom wants us; wisdom is a woman, and always loves only a warrior.

You tell me, "Life is hard to bear." But why should you have your pride in the morning and your resignation in the evening?

Life is hard to bear: but do not pretend to be so delicate! We are all of us fine sumpter @sses and she-@sses .

What do we have in common with the rose-bud, which trembles because a drop of dew lies on it?

It is true we love life; not because we are wont to live, but because we are wont to love.

There is always some madness in love. But there is always, also, some method in madness.

And to me also, who appreciates life, the butterflies, and soap-bubbles, and whatever is like them, seem to know most about happiness.

To see these light, foolish, pretty, lively little sprites flit about- that moves Zarathustra to tears and songs.

I would only believe in a God who could dance.

And when I saw my devil, I found him serious, thorough, profound, solemn: he was the spirit of gravity- through him all things fall.

Not by wrath, but by laughter, do we kill. Come, let us kill the spirit of gravity!

I learned to walk; since then have I let myself run. I learned to fly; since then I do not need to be pushed to move from a spot.

Now I am light, now I fly, now I see myself beneath myself, now a god dances through me.-

posted June 18, 2007 09:12 AM         

I am currently doing a research based MA on Art, Design and Visual Culture and Art theory is a fervent topic of discussion.

Now I enjoy having those theory conversations as for me it is all a lot of nonsense.
ARt is ArT is Art.
Why does it need to be made complex?
Why does it have to have any meaning whatsoever?
And whty shouldn't it have meaning?
I find it a shame that most people feel the need to intellectualise art in order to make it a worthy, or difficult career choice.
Just because you study Art, it doesn't mean you lack any intellectual prowess or you are taking the easy way out.

Thanks for posting that Zala, because it is definitely on par with most sentiments felt in contemporary society.
It's like people are scared to be boring or perceived as boring.
And it is sending us all slightly loopy, wherein we have sacrificed qulaity for quantity.

I have only started to appreciated post modern Art as I like the fact that anything goes and can be considered Art. I find it a joke but a good one. I like it. I get it.
But, I have a longing for the arts and crafts, simplicity and substance of the great Renaissance Masters.

posted June 18, 2007 10:42 AM         

quote:

---

Now I enjoy having those theory conversations as for me it is all a lot of nonsense.
ARt is ArT is Art.
Why does it need to be made complex?
Why does it have to have any meaning whatsoever?
And whty shouldn't it have meaning?
I find it a shame that most people feel the need to intellectualise art in order to make it a worthy, or difficult career choice.

---

What you stated regarding art can apply to everything I think. Years ago when I was studying Theology I remarked to my pastor that " God is simple, but the Church is very complex?" He smiled and said, " We just like to make things more complex than they really are because it makes us look smarter."