(Continuing from my last post, I’ve been sharing a lot of my art on etsy lately. Mainly pretty small things, because then they don’t have to be that expensive but it can still be an original piece. I want to write some sort of essay about that – on the merits of original art, simply because I believe there is power and beauty in that kind of shared creativity. I don’t know exactly why or how though, so I want to figure it out for myself to tell it better to others. Anyway, here’s a link.)
It’s a lie that to create something beautiful, some part in you has to be broken. But I don’t know that. Because I have a twisted perception of what beauty is.
That’s easier, that’s smaller, and sadness fits. It fills my heart up from the inside instead of existing around it the way my happiness does. It’s small enough for me to hold its definition in my hands even though I don’t know what it is.
(I just finished reading Love Letters to the Dead by Ava Dellaira and it was small but quite deep and I fell down)
Conversation with myself
“I’m an artist, I am never really here.”
“So where are you then?”
“Constantly outside of it, right next to everything, witnessing it. In a picture of a laughing crowd, where do you think the artist is? A few steps away, taking the picture.”
“So you do actually want to be with them, in the centre of all things, laughing with the crowd.”
“Why would I want that?”
“How could you not want that, when you’re the one who sees everything as so beautiful?”
“I suppose. The curse of the artist. That by the sight of beauty being torn between participating in it and taking a step back to be able to correctly document it.”
eirians 