Sometimes when I watch a documentary on artists I later find myself brewing and stewing over what they said. Not that I actually retain it verbatim, but the general gist of art speak floats around like a cloud all puffed up and is unavoidably present in my mind. Today I had one thought enter my head about art, this after watching a doc last night on Ovation TV about Robert Rauschenberg who died this week, and that is: why I think I make art. Because nothing else makes much sense. Art makes about as much sense to do as anything else does. Most of the time I have no idea why I am doing it. It has been said over and over that art is an expression~ of what, really doesn't matter to me. Just as when you hear bad news you might laugh instead of cry or viceversa I believe it [art] is a reaction that we then later give meaning to. I know art can be created under the guise of making social and global statements but I personally find it hard to be moved by such art. Maybe that will change, lets hope I am not stagnant and stoic in all of my reactions. For now I find it increasingly difficult to believe in anything. To find meaning in anything. And I have a feeling that for me, this is a good thing. That tight ball of a fist that has held my brain and squeezed it with full force, trying to extract drops of purpose and meaning, has loosened its grip and I feel less distracted, less constrained.
When I make the rare conscious effort to listen to NPR while working on art I marvel at how insane everyone sounds. Man is strange. Everything has to be controlled and counted and weighed and watched. Hyperbole floats in doomnistic (made up a word i think) pools. It's too much for me. I get completely overwhelmed by how bizarre it all appears. I can't believe it, for my own sanity. I can't buy in to it. I really don't want to be a part of most of it. So I find I make art as perhaps a soothing way to cope with my presence and existence. The less I think the better. I wouldn't have said that ten or twenty years ago.