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Monday, May 14, 2012

The Artiste

They write. They rant. They expunge, proselytize, derogate, equivocate, excrete and ejaculate, and often, I like it. I’m not much of a writer, but then again, I must be qualified. I do have a piece of paper and a pen. I used to write poetry, but now it’s so minimalistic that some would call it “concept art”. I find the expression nauseating. The person who painted in garish lettering “Some asshole painted on this bridge” in six foot spray painted letters in a public park was a concept artist. He must have been good too, because that piece stands out in my mind. I entertain the idea that there was truth in the sentiment. If he’d just written “FUCK” there would probably be endless truths in that as well.

They paint and make music. Some sculpt. Some make topiaries and somewhere out there some genius is keying a car. They tattoo themselves and get piercings for a war that is both real and imagined. They laugh and they cry and it is beautiful and abhorrent. A blind man told me that beauty is in the eye of the beholder and a man with a vasectomy is telling people that birth control is wrong. The irony and the art are there as long as something thinks they are. Or maybe they are anyways. I don’t know. What am I, a writer?

A writer would make sense of the senselessness, one must, if one is to verbalize it.  But all it takes to be a writer is paper and a pen. And all it takes to make an artist is consciousness. It makes me wonder why we have those words at all.

-B.