It was the beginning of climate change and the end of humanity.
Embroiled as we were, we could find no cause to resist our situation.
In a last ditch attempt to possess the earth’s beauty, we rode the sky to exotic destinations; hastening their destruction.
I’ve spent the semester in search of identity. Or maybe it was in search of purpose. Both are elusive.
At any rate I’ve been researching a lot about neuroscience and how our unconscious processes guide us in our daily lives and how we affect and are affected by others. It pretty neat stuff, and the experiments those psychologists come up with are pretty creative!
This research has led to a few physically manifested expressions that I am somewhat chuffed about.
Yet there is a slight dissatisfaction as well.
There is still something that needs to be said (or in my case, made). But just what it is is as hard to pin down as the idea of self. It is all intangible, like some sort of dream, where every time you look around the scene it shifts, your lover is no longer with you but now its your boss.
Truthfully though, perhaps I just need to make some sort of work and live with this dissatisfaction.
After all, I am just a pink hairless monkey in a long line of other pink hairless monkeys.
We spent the day going through the works.
We would analyze their form and then speak of how they made us feel.
Sometimes the conversations would roll fast and thick and we would want to discuss something endlessly. Other times words would trickle out slowly like a leak in the roof, perching, waiting for enough information to gather to be disseminated like little sentence rain drops.
You felt for those works that didn’t cause deluges. Perhaps the work is too difficult, perhaps it’s not difficult enough.
There was never any criticism, for it was too open to criticize. Plus in the history of all that came before, no standard was capable of being set. All was valid, potentially.
Strong negative feeling were always to be kept secret. Those opinions were only delivered amongst friends, later on. Same with praise, best given to the artist privately, later on.
We were professionally ambivalent, as it was required. We were always unsure if we were good enough or doing it right or if we should continue. The only validation came when the work was consumed by others, given a nod, or produced an enthusiastic reaction.
Reading between the lines, we continue our practice. Searching for praise.