I don’t really consider myself as a part of a category of anything. I’m fully aware that others do though. I’m a different thing in every else’s lives. A daughter, granddaughter, a sister, a niece, cousin, friend, acquaintance, etc. But, at some point in our lives, I feel like we all have that one moment, just one, where you know exactly who you are, to yourself and the rest of the world. This moment or moments can be scattered at different times in your life,
Obviously not everyone is mentally wired the same way as the next person, so you can just be scrolling your phone in a coffee shop and BAM, suddenly you’ve mentally acquired the cure for cancer. They can happen just like that, or a bit of time. No one can tell, because not only is everyone different, but you’ll never see it coming even if it’s taking years and years for you to find it.
Confused? Yeah me too.
On hindsight, have you ever read an autobiography, and the author seems to be putting extra care into a specific moment that they remember, and everything is so vivid, every single emotion they write just flows out of the pages to greet you. You can easily immerse yourself into the scene and watch it unfold in front of you. The pages practically pulse with despondency and it’s so vivid and just a massive wow moment for the reader, and just a nostalgia and happiness for the author.
That’s what these moments are! Congratulations! You just graduated from confused to moderately aware of what this random girl is talking about.
All jokes aside, when you start questioning your value, when you feel like everything you do is just wrong; when nothing feels right anymore. Just thinking about the moments in life that just ground you , and are such surreal experiences, no matter how simple or bizarre. No one can strip those memories away from you and that’s just, that’s just so alluring.
Finding my own peace time is usually me hiding out in my bedroom like a disgusting gremlin and the first thing you see is paint splattered onto my clothing, marks on my face, and my fingertips look like they’ve been bathing in a toned-out rainbow vomited by a unicorn. My hair will be in a really horrid bun. My glasses crooked, and paint living happily in my fingernails. My desk will be littered with paint tubes, brushes, my massive paint pallete, sketchbook, and in the center would be whatever project I’m working on. Paint usually ends up on my desk, the floor, and basically anything I end up touching afterwards like, paper, brushes, pencils, my phone, earbuds, my sister, etc.
Or, I’ll be sitting on my swivel chair without moving for like two hours, just drawing and sketching, and listening to music that is ridiculously loud. When I’m upset or angry, I can take out a piece of paper and a random old mechanical pencil and just draw. It’s calming, but sometimes the essence of my turmoil can lead to a lot of good things on paper. My anger can get white hot and it’s just terrible. I’m just a really hotheaded person in general, like some of my family members.
A lot of people say anger is damaging for the mind and body, and I get that; but it’s one of my strongest emotions, because that’s when I get everything I’ve had pent up inside me, and just let it out. And it’s not necessarily a good thing when that happens. But when it comes to art, having such a powerful rage like that can make some sick sketches.
On a more recent note, this was a picture that had been happening in my room more often than not. I’ve been sketching, planning, painting, mixing, cutting, pinning, whatever. At this point, I think I’ve had my own version of the renaissance take place in my own bedroom.
Yeah, that’s right, y’all are reading the words of the female reincarnation of Leonardo Davinci.x
I’m kidding I’m kidding.
The closest I’ll ever be to Davici will probably be my ability to squeeze a super precise amount of paint. But even that simile is pointless because about 2.6 seconds later the tube of paint decides to be a massive pain and basically squirt at least half the tube onto my pallete.
And then I proceed to scream.
In my pillow.
And in my head.
Both situations are valid.
All jokes aside, I feel like I’ve found the places where my soul really just, lights on fire you know? Where you feel like you’re just in element. Everything feels like it’s gravitating towards you and everything feels like pure magic and there’s just electricity in the air. And it feels like you’re serving your purpose.
When we were cracking down with the last couple days of school, my teachers kept emphasizing how close our futures our, how our generation is the one that will break down every barrier that is up, how each and every one of us needs to find the things that bind us as human, that keep us whole, and weave our futures with those strings of fate. To find the elements that make us who we are, and then use them as our superpowers.
So philosophical, I know.
*clap clap*
Now that I’m technically a freshmen(I’m really stretching that technically) I’ve got a lot to think about for my future.
What do I need to do to succeed?
What do I want to do to be happy?
Yeah, I’m still working on those bits.
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
But, in the meantime, I wanna take what I love doing, and incorporate it into a practical setting that could possibly land me into the starting point of incubating a career for myself, that not only will redeem my multiple purposes and abilities, but also keep me financially stable. It’s a tall order, but I have a lot of hope, and I’m really trying my best and working hard.
Even though to some people I might seem like I’m lazy and a procrastinator, I really do try a lot to succeed, and when I do fail, I beat myself up over it a lot and it makes me feel like I haven’t done enough. Like I’m not enough.
I have a lot of ambitions and hope for the future. I know that the next four years aren’t going to be a easy; and I know that I have to work harder and harder with every day that comes. I’m not a silly girl who obsesses over books and animes and things that don’t relate to real life. I know what I have to do, and I won’t let anyone stop me from doing so.
I try and I try and I try, and when I fail, I’m a little broken, but I try to keep going anyway. I’m not joking when I say that I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get into the college I dream about going to.
All of that doesn’t mean I’m going to let all the work and the things I need to do, slowly start breaking me apart, and if that happens, when my conscience isn’t as vivacious, then, I won’t know why I started in the first place. I’ll lose the passion because I was to busy trying to turn that passion into something that’ll get me a stable job in the future. And trust me, I will not let that happen, like it has for so many people out there. And that passion, well, besides writing, and words, and creating with my voice; all the passion I bear all comes down to my art too.
When I’m painting or drawing, I’m at peace. It’s just me, my music, and whatever I’m working on. Everything on my mind just disappears and the sweeping of the brush and the scratching of my pencils are the only sounds emitted. Music playing gently(more like screaming) in my ears, paint and pencils scattered all of my desk, my only focus is my art.
My art.
You have no idea how much I love saying that!
｡◕‿‿◕｡
Art is one of my loves, and it’s such a massive part of my life. It’s my life and love.
Ever since I was a little kid, I always felt like holding a crayon in my chubby little fists was the best way to express myself; in the classroom, or on the clean white walls of our apartment. It was a constant that never went away, it felt solid and whole. Something I can run to when I had enough of learning about grammar and scraping knees and palms on the hard black top at school. And it still is and always will be something I can receive comfort from. I can go headfirst and it’ll greet me with open arms. No questions, no hesitations. And it’s been like that ever since I could remember.
Me and my first grade buddies swinging my feet and humming happily as I coloured a(terribly drawn)picture with every shade of pink humanely possible, well, if the crayon box had it of course.
Crayons, aren’t really my medium anymore, but the picture hasn’t changed as much as one would expect:
Me sitting with my circle of friends just chilling out on the floor, I wag me feet side to side and sing along with my friends to whatever song we felt like belting out that very moment. I shade in a(somewhat decent drawing)with every mechanical pencil that my pencil case has stowed away, and rubbing the marks with my fingers tips, leaving dark smudges on my hands and on whatever ensemble I’m wearing that day.
When I got older, it became so much more than just making a statement. Art is where I find my home, where I’m at peace, I can connect with people by creating something that can make them visualize what you want them to see, or create a blank canvas they can let themselves go into, without a certain picture they have to be held by.
Art doesn’t require sophisticated thinking, a knowledge of a variety of things, there aren’t any rules that need to be applied in order to make something beautiful. It’s kind of like creating a confession, letting everything that lies inside of you, out. Everything meaning anything. Even the empty voids you don’t know how to fill. Art is my escape from everything I can’t run away from. All the work, practice, school, people, and just life in general.
When I’m in my room, I’m in my zone. It’s my own burrow out of the whole house and to me, the feeling I get from walking in there, nothing can hold a candle to it. Everything flows the way I want it, messily perfect and just reciprocates what I am as a person.
The random little things tacked onto my bulletin board, the fairy lights strung with no coordination (and a lot of struggling) a massive wooden desk with paint stains on the surface, the drawers attached, as messy as ever. Book over books in the shelves, my drawers, the nightstand, my desk, the floor, the shelves. Everywhere. My bed is a wrinkled mess, with an unnecessary amount of pillows and stuff animals throw randomly onto . but it’s cozy enough for me to become a tiny little burrito of darkness that fuels itself with lukewarm citrus tea and stale Goldfish crackers.
I can do anything and everything because it all holds my atmosphere, and I can control the way I want it to be.
With art, I don’t ever have to worry about getting it right, about perfecting it. Because art is messy and weird and peculiar, and just represents who you are and what message you want to repress onto the paper or canvas. Literally or hypothetically, art is art. Just like love is love and life is life.
And, I love indulging myself with other people’s works, I don’t take myself to be good at the things I love doing. It’s just the fact that I love doing them that keeps me going. I don’t have very high self esteem either, actually, it’s pretty much lower than an average person’s when I think about it. A lot of people on first contact would probably say, “Hey, are you like, okay? Do you need a hug? Whatever it is I’m here for you bro, and yada yada yada.” No, no, I’m perfectly fine. I’m not going through an emo phase. I’M FINE. I just don’t think that highly of myself. But that doesn’t mean I’ll put random people on a pedestal that casts their shadow on me. I don’t idolize people, it’s not my thing.
But that’s not due to seeing other people’s works and thinking, “Oh wow, there so much better than I am at(fill in the blank). I’ll never be as good as them.” I’m not gonna lie and say I don’t have some self doubt. I doubt myself in every aspect of anything. Like I said, low self esteem. But I don’t compare myself to other people and start damaging myself mentally. I know I’m not perfect and I never will be the exact definition of it either. But that doesn’t mean I’ll be bringing myself down in the process just because someone’s better at something that I am. I’ll applaud them and cheer them on. I will support them. But not without establishing a certain distance between my self esteem and a self destructive conscious.
(Before you read the next portion, I just want to give you a fair warning. For the record, I’m not super anime obsessed okay? I don’t watch some trash anime just so I can’t start conversation with someone. I have very specific tastes in what I watch and anime is one of them. I watch only a few others with interest, and only if I actually like them too. See, there you go, I am an anime connoisseur.
Haha lol, no I’m not.)
Anyway, one day, I was just in my room scrolling through my phone, looking for a reference for one of my drawings(I’m not plagiarizing don’t worry), and I was listening to the song History Maker from my absolute favorite anime Yuri!!! On Ice. I really like this anime because it’s so inspirational and breaks so many boundaries when it comes to regular anime. It has such an inspiring plot and each character is unique and different. The anime itself is really culturally diverse and I am absolutely in love with the music written for it.
Sorry, I just released my anime nerd side on you.
Oops.
Anyway, as I was scrolling through my phone, I turned my swivel chair lazily around it’s post, my feet barely brushing the wooden floor. I looked up for a second and scanned the other side of my bedroom, looking to the two wooden dressers, the fairy lights, and the various unnecessary accessories on the wall. My eyes finally fell onto my sweaters and jackets, and as I looked, I caught the sight of my dark blue jean jacket that a close friend gave me for my birthday this year. The jacket itself had no embellishments and is a kinda big on my too, the sleeves going over my knuckles and wrists. But it is really comfortable and my go-to jacket when I’m heading out.
But, after a good long stare, my eyes went to where my paints tubes were, the vary of pastel colours calling out to me with their vibrancy. The pinks and yellows pulsing with life that I knew needed to be brought into another piece.
But then it hit me.
I looked at the paints, then the jacket, then my brushes.
I practically threw myself off my chair and ran to my paint crate, grabbing paint’s brushes, a pallete, and a pallete knife. Then I yanked the jacket of it’s wooden hanger and cleared off my desk, laying the jacket flat so the backside faced me. Every one of my actions was frantic and searching with purpose. And as I sat down, my mind was buzzing with ideas on what to do.
“Should I paint a landscape? An abstract design? A portrait?”
Okay, sorry to break the oh-my-gosh-i-just-had-a-possibly-life-altering-breakthrough-with-my-art-and-maybe-even-my-artistic-reminisence-oh-good-glory, vibe. But I actually wanted to paint the jacket for a while, but never got the chance because of school. The reason I practically threw myself off of my own feet was because in my head I was thinking oh my cheese whiz I actually have time to do things with my life.
I had History Maker on loop the entire time, and at that point, I was in a daze. I leaned back in my chair, staring up at the wooden ceiling, then at the open window. The tree’s were a pulsing green, the sky an uncalling grey. Clouds were clustered together, hiding away the sky. Inspiration was a destination I was yet to hit.
But then, when the song started again, I snapped out of my stupor and listened a bit more carefully to the first verse of the song.
“Can you hear my heartbeat?
Tired of feeling never enough
I close my eyes and tell myself
That my dreams will come true
There’ll be no more darkness
When you believe in yourself
You are unstoppable
Where your destiny lies
Dancing on the blades
You set my heart on fire
Don’t stop us now
The moment of truth
We were born to make history
We’ll make it happen
We’ll turn it around
Yes, we were born to make
history.”
YES. YEEEEEEES DON’T YOU FEEL SO PUMPED RIGHT NOW. DON’T YOU FEEL UNSTOPPABLE. DON’T YOU FEEL LOVED. DON’T YOU FEEL CAPTIVATED. DON’T YOU FEEL-okay I’ll stop.
The line, “Born to make history.” started to just repeat in my head, like a broken record player. I let out a little squeak of joy and grabbed all my stuff. But hey, you can’t blame a girl for tryin’ right?
After all,
I had found my muse.
Being the very sophisticated artist I am, my train of thought was as follows:
WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH
YEAH, THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKIN’ ABOUT
IT’S RAZZLE DAZZLE TIME
why am i like this.
After I changed into a different top that I would be more comfortable painting with, I grabbed my favorite scrunchie and tied my hair up into a bun so it would stay out of my face while I worked.
After setting out all my paints on my pallete, I set to work.
First I planned out the design with a silver fabric marker and a gel pen that had ink that flowed really well. While I worked, I was also freaking out, mostly because I was paranoid of messing up the whole thing. So, while I was fearing for my life and self dignity, I got the words all on the back of the jacket in a swoopy font kinda style. At that point, I must’ve been in my room to long without making a single sound, because my mom poked her head through the door and said “What are you doing Kanmani?” with a questioning look in her eyes.
“Oh, I’m just painting.” I replied.
“Painting what?”
“My jacket.”
“Oh.” She said before falling silent.
“Yeah.”
“Why?” Now she was looking at me like I lost my mind.
But honestly, at this point I can’t really blame her for being exasperated. I mean, some days I’ll be doing absolutely nothing. Like literally nothing. I’ll just be staring at a wall in my room, or sitting out on the deck just staring out into space, nothing is on my mind AT ALL.
Other days, I won’t come out of my room, or I won’t get up from the computer, because I’m doing something with somewhat of a breakthrough. And when my parents ask me what I’m doing, or tell me to get up and take a break for a bit; I look up and I probably look like a racoon that accidentally drank coffee that wasn’t decaffeinated(can you say #raccoonproblems).
Anyway, I gave my mom a look, like Um, exsqueez me ma’am but I’m workin’ here so if ya don’t mind can you mosey on over back to where ya came from so I can paint this article of clothing in peace?”
After that mild interruption, nothing was going to be stopping me from finishing my project. So, getting my attention under any other circumstance was basically a hopeless case. I had my heart set on finishing off that jacket and letting it dry overnight. It felt like I had this mental adrenaline rush that wasn’t going to end very soon.
My colour scheme was different pastel colours, like a deep mint green with a hint of aquamarine; and little pink, blue, and yellow dots. It took me at least two hours to paint and repaint the letters properly so the colour would show up in such a dark background. That seemed to be the most frustrating part for me, and you could tell from a distance(and start backing away in muted horror) that I was not a mood that reciprocates sunshine, rainbows, and unicorns. Or any peace for that matter.
I had paint brushes stuck in my hair, my eyebrows were furrowed, and my eyes probably looked really bewildered, or just plain pissed off. I probably looked like I needed to go to a mental hospital. I was tempted to start throwing my brushed onto the wall or break things, that was how frustrated I was. But, I tried to keep my cool(like I said, I tried) because A) I wanted to finish painting my jacket without potentially annihilating anything. And B) I didn’t wanna get a supreme scolding from my parents.
But you couldn’t blame me, or any artist for going into terminator mode once in a while from the process of making art.
My advice, that you never asked for, is just irritate someone when their drawing, or painting, or whatever. That is just plain dangerous on your part. So go ahead and do the complete opposite of what I said, if you want a pallete knife thrown at you.
After a lot of hard work(an a lot of internal screaming) I finally finished painting the jacket. I’m personally really proud of it. I love the colours and how I made it look, and sure the y in history looks like it was wresting with a curling iron, and there’s random smudges and stuff. But I still love wearing it. And it makes me proud too. I made art and now I can walk around like a boss.
And every time I look at it, I always think “I did it. Good job me.” Because, to be honest with you, I’m never ever sure if my art, or my writing, or the way I play my instruments are even decent. But, with this I don’t understand why, but it’s different. I didn’t have to take a good hard look at it to know that those hours spent working on something that made me so happy, and the others around me, it was totally worth it.
Why am I ranting. I’ve been talking this whole time about this jacket and you guys barely even know what it looks like(well except my parents of course) Here’s a picture!:
Every time I put it on, I feel super suave and it makes me feel powerful. And every time I look at it, and it just makes me happy. And since it’s so big on me, I can wear a hoodie underneath without making it look weird but actually really good. Plus, I can be comfortable and not freeze to popsicle levels when it’s winter time.
Next time I wear it (it’s nearly a nightmare to wear jackets now because it’s so hot in the good ol’ summertime of California) I’ll totally wear sunglasses, pull my hair back, wear a bunch of rings on the joints of my finger, and wear like a super dank outfit with the jacket. Like black jeans, Converse, and a ratty old t-shirt. And then I’ll get someone to take a picture of me and I’ll send it to everyone with the caption #Thuggin’.
Hey, if they make a remastering of the movie The Outsiders(I love the book though, you should read it. 10/10 would recommend to anyone) They should keep me inline as a new female character or something. Cause I totally think I can pull of the look.
“Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.
This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose…
…Describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty – describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. If your everyday life seems poor, don’t blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is not poverty and no poor, indifferent place. And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world’s sounds – wouldn’t you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure house of memories? Turn your attentions to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance. – And if out of this turning-within, out of this immersion in your own world, poems come, then you will not think of asking anyone whether they are good or not. Nor will you try to interest magazines in these works: for you will see them as your dear natural possession, a piece of your life, a voice from it. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it.”
―
I found these quotes to be really, broadening for me. I don’t know this writer well, I don’t even know if she even is a writer! But, the things that she’s saying feels like her thought match mine. Except I’m not sure how to answer some of the questions she tells us to ask ourselves. And I feel like all she’s saying, also applied to everything that you immerse yourself into, in whatever occupation you’re in, or even if it’s just a hobby.
Here’s another excerpt that I found by Leo Tolstoy, a famous writer.
#1. In order correctly to define art, it is necessary, first of all, to cease to consider it as a means to pleasure and to consider it as one of the conditions of human life. Viewing it in this way we cannot fail to observe that art is one of the means of intercourse between man and man.
#2. Every work of art causes the receiver to enter into a certain kind of relationship both with him who produced, or is producing, the art, and with all those who, simultaneously, previously, or subsequently, receive the same artistic impression.
#3. Speech, transmitting the thoughts and experiences of men, serves as a means of union among them, and art acts in a similar manner. The peculiarity of this latter means of intercourse, distinguishing it from intercourse by means of words, consists in this, that whereas by words a man transmits his thoughts to another, by means of art he transmits his feelings.
#4. The activity of art is based on the fact that a man, receiving through his sense of hearing or sight another man’s expression of feeling, is capable of experiencing the emotion which moved the man who expressed it. To take the simplest example; one man laughs, and another who hears becomes merry; or a man weeps, and another who hears feels sorrow. A man is excited or irritated, and another man seeing him comes to a similar state of mind. By his movements or by the sounds of his voice, a man expresses courage and determination or sadness and calmness, and this state of mind passes on to others. A man suffers, expressing his sufferings by groans and spasms, and this suffering transmits itself to other people; a man expresses his feeling of admiration, devotion, fear, respect, or love to certain objects, persons, or phenomena, and others are infected by the same feelings of admiration, devotion, fear, respect, or love to the same objects, persons, and phenomena.
#5. And it is upon this capacity of man to receive another man’s expression of feeling and experience those feelings himself, that the activity of art is based.
#6. If a man infects another or others directly, immediately, by his appearance or by the sounds he gives vent to at the very time he experiences the feeling; if he causes another man to yawn when he himself cannot help yawning, or to laugh or cry when he himself is obliged to laugh or cry, or to suffer when he himself is suffering – that does not amount to art.
#7. Art begins when one person, with the object of joining another or others to himself in one and the same feeling, expresses that feeling by certain external indications. To take the simplest example: a boy, having experienced, let us say, fear on encountering a wolf, relates that encounter; and, in order to evoke in others the feeling he has experienced, describes himself, his condition before the encounter, the surroundings, the woods, his own lightheartedness, and then the wolf’s appearance, its movements, the distance between himself and the wolf, etc. All this, if only the boy, when telling the story, again experiences the feelings he had lived through and infects the hearers and compels them to feel what the narrator had experienced is art. If even the boy had not seen a wolf but had frequently been afraid of one, and if, wishing to evoke in others the fear he had felt, he invented an encounter with a wolf and recounted it so as to make his hearers share the feelings he experienced when he feared the world, that also would be art. And just in the same way it is art if a man, having experienced either the fear of suffering or the attraction of enjoyment (whether in reality or in imagination) expresses these feelings on canvas or in marble so that others are infected by them. And it is also art if a man feels or imagines to himself feelings of delight, gladness, sorrow, despair, courage, or despondency and the transition from one to another of these feelings, and expresses these feelings by sounds so that the hearers are infected by them and experience them as they were experienced by the composer.
#8. The feelings with which the artist infects others may be most various – very strong or very weak, very important or very insignificant, very bad or very good: feelings of love for one’s own country, self-devotion and submission to fate or to God expressed in a drama, raptures of lovers described in a novel, feelings of voluptuousness expressed in a picture, courage expressed in a triumphal march, merriment evoked by a dance, humor evoked by a funny story, the feeling of quietness transmitted by an evening landscape or by a lullaby, or the feeling of admiration evoked by a beautiful arabesque – it is all art.
#9. If only the spectators or auditors are infected by the feelings which the author has felt, it is art.
#10. To evoke in oneself a feeling one has once experienced, and having evoked it in oneself, then, by means of movements, lines, colors, sounds, or forms expressed in words, so to transmit that feeling that others may experience the same feeling – this is the activity of art.
#11. Art is a human activity consisting in this, that one man consciously, by means of certain external signs, hands on to others feelings he has lived through, and that other people are infected by these feelings and also experience them.
#12. Art is not, as the metaphysicians say, the manifestation of some mysterious idea of beauty or God; it is not, as the aesthetical physiologists say, a game in which man lets off his excess of stored-up energy; it is not the expression of man’s emotions by external signs; it is not the production of pleasing objects; and, above all, it is not pleasure; but it is a means of union among men, joining them together in the same feelings, and indispensable for the life and progress toward well-being of individuals and of humanity.
#13. As, thanks to man’s capacity to express thoughts by words, every man may know all that has been done for him in the realms of thought by all humanity before his day, and can in the present, thanks to this capacity to understand the thoughts of others, become a sharer in their activity and can himself hand on to his contemporaries and descendants the thoughts he has assimilated from others, as well as those which have arisen within himself; so, thanks to man’s capacity to be infected with the feelings of others by means of art, all that is being lived through by his contemporaries is accessible to him, as well as the feelings experienced by men thousands of years ago, and he has also the possibility of transmitting his own feelings to others.
#14. If people lacked this capacity to receive the thoughts conceived by the men who preceded them and to pass on to others their own thoughts, men would be like wild beasts, or like Kaspar Houser.
#15. And if men lacked this other capacity of being infected by art, people might be almost more savage still, and, above all, more separated from, and more hostile to, one another.
#16. And therefore the activity of art is a most important one, as important as the activity of speech itself and as generally diffused.
#17. We are accustomed to understand art to be only what we hear and see in theaters, concerts, and exhibitions, together with buildings, statues, poems, novels. . . . But all this is but the smallest part of the art by which we communicate with each other in life. All human life is filled with works of art of every kind – from cradlesong, jest, mimicry, the ornamentation of houses, dress, and utensils, up to church services, buildings, monuments, and triumphal processions. It is all artistic activity. So that by art, in the limited sense of the word, we do not mean all human activity transmitting feelings, but only that part which we for some reason select from it and to which we attach special importance.
#18. This special importance has always been given by all men to that part of this activity which transmits feelings flowing from their religious perception, and this small part of art they have specifically called art, attaching to it the full meaning of the word.
#19. That was how man of old — Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle – looked on art. Thus did the Hebrew prophets and the ancient Christians regard art; thus it was, and still is, understood by the Mohammedans, and thus it still is understood by religious folk among our own peasantry.
#20. Some teachers of mankind – as Plato in his Republic and people such as the primitive Christians, the strict Mohammedans, and the Buddhists — have gone so far as to repudiate all art.
#21. People viewing art in this way (in contradiction to the prevalent view of today which regards any art as good if only it affords pleasure) considered, and consider, that art (as contrasted with speech, which need not be listened to) is so highly dangerous in its power to infect people against their wills that mankind will lose far less by banishing all art than by tolerating each and every art.
#22. Evidently such people were wrong in repudiating all art, for they denied that which cannot be denied – one of the indispensable means of communication, without which mankind could not exist. But not less wrong are the people of civilized European society of our class and day in favoring any art if it but serves beauty, i.e., gives people pleasure.
#23. Formerly people feared lest among the works of art there might chance to be some causing corruption, and they prohibited art altogether. Now they only fear lest they should be deprived of any enjoyment art can afford, and patronize any art. And I think the last error is much grosser than the first and that its consequences are far more harmful.
#24. Art, in our society, has been so perverted that not only has bad art come to be considered good, but even the very perception of what art really is has been lost. In order to be able to speak about the art of our society, it is, therefore, first of all necessary to distinguish art from counterfeit art.
#25. There is one indubitable indication distinguishing real art from its counterfeit, namely, the infectiousness of art. If a man, without exercising effort and without altering his standpoint on reading, hearing, or seeing another man’s work, experiences a mental condition which unites him with that man and with other people who also partake of that work of art, then the object evoking that condition is a work of art. And however poetical, realistic, effectful, or interesting a work may be, it is not a work of art if it does not evoke that feeling (quite distinct from all other feelings) of joy and of spiritual union with another (the author) and with others (those who are also infected by it).
#26. It is true that this indication is an internal one, and that there are people who have forgotten what the action of real art is, who expect something else form art (in our society the great majority are in this state), and that therefore such people may mistake for this aesthetic feeling the feeling of diversion and a certain excitement which they receive from counterfeits of art. But though it is impossible to undeceive these people, just as it is impossible to convince a man suffering from “Daltonism” [a type of color blindness] that green is not red, yet, for all that, this indication remains perfectly definite to those whose feeling for art is neither perverted nor atrophied, and it clearly distinguishes the feeling produced by art from all other feelings.
#27. The chief peculiarity of this feeling is that the receiver of a true artistic impression is so united to the artist that he feels as if the work were his own and not someone else’s – as if what it expresses were just what he had long been wishing to express. A real work of art destroys, in the consciousness of the receiver, the separation between himself and the artist – not that alone, but also between himself and all whose minds receive this work of art. In this freeing of our personality from its separation and isolation, in this uniting of it with others, lies the chief characteristic and the great attractive force of art.
#28. If a man is infected by the author’s condition of soul, if he feels this emotion and this union with others, then the object which has effected this is art; but if there be no such infection, if there be not this union with the author and with others who are moved by the same work – then it is not art. And not only is infection a sure sign of art, but the degree of infectiousness is also the sole measure of excellence in art.
#29. The stronger the infection, the better is the art as art, speaking now apart from its subject matter, i.e., not considering the quality of the feelings it transmits.
#30. And the degree of the infectiousness of art depends on three conditions:
- On the greater or lesser individuality of the feeling transmitted;
- on the greater or lesser clearness with which the feeling is transmitted;
- on the sincerity of the artist, i.e., on the greater or lesser force with which the artist himself feels the emotion he transmits.
#31. The more individual the feeling transmitted the more strongly does it act on the receiver; the more individual the state of soul into which he is transferred, the more pleasure does the receiver obtain, and therefore the more readily and strongly does he join in it.
#32. The clearness of expression assists infection because the receiver, who mingles in consciousness with the author, is the better satisfied the more clearly the feeling is transmitted, which, as it seems to him, he has long known and felt, and for which he has only now found expression.
#33. But most of all is the degree of infectiousness of art increased by the degree of sincerity in the artist. As soon as the spectator, hearer, or reader feels that the artist is infected by his own production, and writes, sings, or plays for himself, and not merely to act on others, this mental condition of the artist infects the receiver; and contrariwise, as soon as the spectator, reader, or hearer feels that the author is not writing, singing, or playing for his own satisfaction – does not himself feel what he wishes to express – but is doing it for him, the receiver, a resistance immediately springs up, and the most individual and the newest feelings and the cleverest technique not only fail to produce any infection but actually repel.
#34. I have mentioned three conditions of contagiousness in art, but they may be all summed up into one, the last, sincerity, i.e., that the artist should be impelled by an inner need to express his feeling. That condition includes the first; for if the artist is sincere he will express the feeling as he experienced it. And as each man is different from everyone else, his feeling will be individual for everyone else; and the more individual it is – the more the artist has drawn it from the depths of his nature – the more sympathetic and sincere will it be. And this same sincerity will impel the artist to find a clear expression of the feeling which he wishes to transmit.
#35. Therefore this third condition – sincerity – is the most important of the three. It is always complied with in peasant art, and this explains why such art always acts so powerfully; but it is a condition almost entirely absent from our upper-class art, which is continually produced by artists actuated by personal aims of covetousness or vanity.
#36. Such are the three conditions which divide art from its counterfeits, and which also decide the quality of every work of art apart from its subject matter.
#37. The absence of any one of these conditions excludes a work form the category of art and relegates it to that of art’s counterfeits. If the work does not transmit the artist’s peculiarity of feeling and is therefore not individual, if it is unintelligibly expressed, or if it has not proceeded from the author’s inner need for expression – it is not a work of art. If all these conditions are present, even in the smallest degree, then the work, even if a weak one, is yet a work of art.
#38. The presence in various degrees of these three conditions – individuality, clearness, and sincerity – decides the merit of a work of art as art, apart from subject matter. All works of art take rank of merit according to the degree in which they fulfill the first, the second, and the third of these conditions. In one the individuality of the feeling transmitted may predominate; in another, clearness of expression; in a third, sincerity; while a fourth may have sincerity and individuality but be deficient in clearness; a fifth, individuality and clearness but less sincerity; and so forth, in all possible degrees and combinations.
#39. Thus is art divided from that which is not art, and thus is the quality of art as art decided, independently of its subject matter, i.e., apart from whether the feelings it transmits are good or bad.
#40. But how are we to define good and bad art with reference to its subject matter?
Now, I didn’ t write this entire blog post just so I could rant about my everyday interests and bore you guys to death, even though it may sound exactly like the latter.
In fact, this post isn’t even about me.
When I started this blog, my sole goal was to help people find who they truly are, uncover what happiness really is, to open new windows of opportunities and maybe even spark interest in you. Sharing my interests with other people opened up new potential and a realization of Hey, I should try this. And it isn’t just about telling people about a new hobby or sport or whatever, it’s about letting others, and yourself, know that there is always something that will call out to you and say this is what you were born to do. Telling other people what you like to do, and why it feels so magical, can be broadening for them and you. It’ll be the most subtle thing ever, or just scream in your face but you’ll know why I meant all of this.
Find what you really love doing, and do it.
Always, always question yourself in these terms.
“Does this make me happy?”
“Am I doing this for myself or for the mere sake of it?”
“How much did I do to get here?”
I want everyone to realize that you don’t have to have a future where you’re unhappy, but you have enough pay to live a proper life.
And always remember, that whatever art you’re pursuing,
It’s never a crime.
