I've realized that the longing for art, like the longing for love is a malady that blinds us, and makes us forget the things we already know....
Like with passion comes pain; with gain comes loss.
The human condition is in itself a malady. I'm to full to be half loved. In art as in love, you need the richness and passion to grab you, the fullness. Like the creation of art, you have to create to become.
Art is obscure, but real. Love can be both, or neither. Tantalizing, filling the senses, but elusive. Most people are more than one person, virtue wears a veil, vice wears a mask. Both are mimicked. Their thoughts, someone else's, their passion a quotation.
There are extraordinary things in the mundane, hidden treasures in the darkest shadows. You cannot do epic things with basic people. When you take a lover, take one who looks at you like you are magic. If you do not, life, like art, goes up in smoke.
The longing becomes elusive. Forgiveness is like this, the windows closed, the curtains drawn. The sun is out, but you cannot see it. If you can love someone, something, with your whole heart, then there is salvation in life, in love and in art.
Imagination is everything, it is the preview on life's coming attractions. Reckless danger, narcissism and whiskey. Creating art with words, love with photos, life from life. Passion. The manifestation of the independent mind. Reality obscured.
