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Apparently, the misery of one man is such that he desires its continuance even after balm has been offered him a hundred times over. Like a hidden badge do we wear our pain. Like a trophy do we display it to ourselves: a priceless, worthless treasure that we know should be shared with no one despite our burning desire to do so in order that its burden might be lessened over many backs. We know the folly and selfishness of such a desire, and so the proud among us try as they might to refrain from its realization. But those of us who have no knowledge of or care for the potential damage that such actions can wreak actively bemoan their sorry plight as loudly as possible, foisting their complaint on to any ear willing to let itself be bent.
We call most of these 'artists'.
Art reflects life, as the sage says sagely. But, consistently, it seems that what is considered the 'best' art reflects only the portions of life that are characterized by misery, suffering, pain...the reality of the human condition. Seldom is the art that celebrates the beauty in life for its own sake considered to be on the same tier as the art throws into sharp relief life's foibles. The most celebrated music of the last millennium is at once the grandest in scope and the most tragic in depth, that which evokes the most profound and inexpressible sorrow in the listener. The most renowned paintings have depicted suffering, grief, loss, fear. The most championed sculptures have portrayed agony, bondage, misery. Art in and of itself does reflect life, and sometimes well; but, by humanity's own standard, only when it reflects the vilest and most caliginous aspects thereof does it ever achieve true 'greatness'.
I have heard it wondered why so many great artists have died so tragically, be it through suicide, alcoholism, or what have you. To be honest, I personally have wondered why more have not died in the same way. It so often seems that in order to make 'great' art, one must impale themselves on the rusted blade of life's shortcomings. Few, I believe, would be so strong as to be able to withstand the searing heat of life's crucible for long -- and many would, after a short time, find themselves willing to do anything at all to be free or able to ignore the pain.
We call most of these 'artists'.
Art reflects life, as the sage says sagely. But, consistently, it seems that what is considered the 'best' art reflects only the portions of life that are characterized by misery, suffering, pain...the reality of the human condition. Seldom is the art that celebrates the beauty in life for its own sake considered to be on the same tier as the art throws into sharp relief life's foibles. The most celebrated music of the last millennium is at once the grandest in scope and the most tragic in depth, that which evokes the most profound and inexpressible sorrow in the listener. The most renowned paintings have depicted suffering, grief, loss, fear. The most championed sculptures have portrayed agony, bondage, misery. Art in and of itself does reflect life, and sometimes well; but, by humanity's own standard, only when it reflects the vilest and most caliginous aspects thereof does it ever achieve true 'greatness'.
I have heard it wondered why so many great artists have died so tragically, be it through suicide, alcoholism, or what have you. To be honest, I personally have wondered why more have not died in the same way. It so often seems that in order to make 'great' art, one must impale themselves on the rusted blade of life's shortcomings. Few, I believe, would be so strong as to be able to withstand the searing heat of life's crucible for long -- and many would, after a short time, find themselves willing to do anything at all to be free or able to ignore the pain.
