Limited Possibility: Doherty Is A Lie

I’m just going to start off by saying: Doherty doesn’t work, the link is not fixed, I can’t access the article and I can’t find it on the internet. I’ve begun to feel bad in these blogs always saying how hard it is to construct a creative act within the time space between Monday night and Wednesday afternoon. But then I really have to say that it isn’t getting any easier especially with Sandra Meig’s artistic statement and lecture being the only inspiration and sadly I must say that it wasn’t much of that either. Inspiring I mean.

Ms.Meig’s artistic statement seemed to veer off in so many different directions I got lost on what she wanted to say. Out of body experience? The painting expressing itself through you? Divine inspiration through imaginary space and time? The statement lost me to say the least and I became dependent on the lecture to clear up the ideas which sadly it did not for me.

Ms.Meig’s lecture was off-putting to find an odd word to describe an odd lecture. I struggled with trying to find what she was trying to say: a theme. I followed along but couldn’t help but realize all she talked about was that a book inspired her, not an everyday event, not some sort of realization, just a book. She then continued on about how this book changed her artistic view and centralized her work. I don’t care about architecture, I never have, I probably never will, and thus the resulting house discussion was unrelatable to me. I hate to continue whining (because its making me question my own happiness in life) but I then have to critique the rest of the class for their questions. It is not a question if you say “would you say that your creative process comes from making mistakes and then experiencing correcting them?” That’s telling the artist what they feel and Meig would just reply “yes”. I’m not learning anything about the artist, just the questioner’s attempt to relate themselves to the artist.

My blog is going to be short again. I’ve been tossing around ideas on what on earth I can do. Last time I checked I don’t live near any weird mansions and I can’t read a book in the space of three hours. I then realized I could be slightly ironic in my piece with a clever social commentary on both the presentation while still keeping it relevant to the presentation. I call it: What the hell is that?

This comes from one of Meig’s final comments about the stump/poncho man. It was unclear what the object was until it moved. I roved my building and campus in search of objects that are unidentifiable, or at least made them unidentifiable in the picture. This may only be connected explicitly to her final comment but I believe it certainly hints towards what I’ve said more than a couple times when looking at modern art. The answers are found by holding your mouse over the image. Click to enlarge.

Go Ahead, Use My Body, See I Care

I find art in so many of my classes. As the term winds to a close more and more projects, presentations, and participation is arising. Normally hurt by this I’ve become to realize just how much it is allowing me to express my artistic side as even an essay is granted a persuasive side. A little me in the diction. That would be the reason I found my creative act this week so liberating as I stepped as far away from structure as I could imagine to be possible. I did, however, wish there was little bit more of me in the diction. Don’t worry, I’ll explain later.

My creative act this week was inspired by the reading of Personality and Artistic Creativity by James L. Jarrett. The central theme of all of the readings and Madeline Sonik’s lecture was explicit in the very title of this reading. It was also by far the best written and most interesting. Hans J. Eynseck’s article on Suggestions for the same theory was intolerable. I will admit, I could not finish the article but in my defense twenty one pages of thick psychiatric revelations was not part of the course criteria. There is so many different trains of thought in the article it is difficult to give an opinion. I found it educative but also overwhelming as each topic he blows off in half of his tiny page print could be evolved into an entire course. A general cover though is that intelligence is unrelated to creativity and what differences are there. Unfortunately I’ve always found this a sort of obvious especially when looking at other artists I know.

Amy Tan was interesting and I found her relatable to Brian Hendrix in the sense that both tried to teach through relating their experience and both did so in an intriguing and interesting fashion. But again, I didn’t feel like I learned a lot about myself or content. Ms.Tan’s goal was to explain how to make something out of nothing and I feel she got lost on that but, never the less, her story was spectacular and I enjoyed it even if it was certainly the black sheep in the readings. Ms.Sonik’s lecture was right on spot. Sort of a light summary of Jarrett’s work it was nice to have a dumbed down version of these difficult concepts to handle. For that reason I really enjoyed the lecture as it was easy to understand and follow.

Something that Ms.Sonik didn’t address but Jarrett did though was the idea of possession for the extraverted writer. One of Jarrett’s key concepts through which he based this article was the difference between artistic purpose and possession, the introverted and extroverted. These then branch off into different personality traits and examines those in more detail and what they mean especially in relation to one another. It was the idea of possession that I wanted to follow through in my creative act as it addressed all of the readings and Sonik’s lecture.

Explicitly stated in Jarrett possession is relevant to Eynseck’s argument that intelligence is separate from creativity as intelligence holds no bounds on the possession. Amy Tan discusses the creative calling and inspiration and Ms.Sonik talked of introspective as a narrow part of this possession of self. So for my creative act I let myself be possessed. In the afternoon, after a dull class, I wanted to take a quick nap. Instead I dropped my head onto my desk, my hands onto the keyboard, and began playing the Forrest Gump Suite by Alan Silvestri full blast into my earbuds. I then fell on the brink of the unconscious and conscious just letting my fingers go, unaware of what they were writing only seeing the words as they rushed by me too fast too understand. I did this for a full 15 minutes before I lifted my head again, surprisingly rejuvenated. I read the piece I had just written (which is unaltered for you now except for spelling and punctuation) that I give to you below and wonder just what the spirit that possessed me was trying to say. I even kept the mysterious cap locks that did not seem to impede my finger alignment. All I know is that I had a discussion with a friend the other day if I was the incarceration of Oscar Wilde. Let’s just say it was finished unresolved. So, dear reader, here is a creative work technically of my own hand but certainly not of my own doing.

It was an autumn day. Sun shines. Tears rain down from heaven on high. I asked my mom yesterday if I could take a ride. “Where?”

“Anywhere.”

She looked at me. Breaking baby blues. She just smiled and walked away leaving me to myself in the sandbox, still playing with the sand, making a castle. It wouldn’t be for years that I would realize that that was the last time I saw Mom. They say it was a stroke, I think she was just tired and she saw how the leaves flew free; that they didn’t need to be told what to do or try to define who they were. I wish I knew why she wanted to join the leaves, or maybe more so, why she didn’t help pull me into the braches as well just letting me lay on the ground by myself in the sand-box.

The year is eighteen nineteen. I heard someone die outside the window last night; a child, hypothermia. I could hear the bawling all night of another abandoned little one but I wasn’t one to care or to try and stop the mother or father from changing their lives. Setting themselves free. The police came this morning. “An awful shame”

“Beautiful child” that could have been my child but I remained in the loft just staring out my window. I soon returned to my work, pulled out the parchment and just began to flow.

I do have a child. Her name is Lucy. Lucy Lavelle. She is my angel atop the tree and the only thing I need. I don’t know who the mother is but I have assumed the role of father. This time when I heard the bawling I decided that the loft was big enough for two. I don’t know if I can do this but with Lucy babbling by my side I frankly don’t really give a damn,

Her tenth birthday. I let someone else run the show for once. The kids go off without me. They run down the street flying kites of love. Silence as I lose sight. A corner too fast as they rocket like streams down the cobbled path. I ask Lucy to stop but now I’m too late as the point in growth is removal.

I return to my sandbox and just sit there. I try making another castle like I did as a child but I can’t. The castle is never able to reach nor exceed my expectations. So Lucy comes back, plops beside me. She begins to finish this castle that I’ve started. With tiny ivory hands she builds parapets, soldiers, a stable, horses, population, city, she builds a culture. We rule over this kingdom, Lucy and I. I the offshoot king her the belligerent lovable leader. Never have I gone on a journey so deep, so far fetched, that I have actually succeeded in reaching something of a destination.

BUT LIKE ALL THINGS TIME PASSES. THE CASTLE CRUMBLES AND LUCY IS BAWLING AGAIN. I LOOK OUT THE WINDOW, DRAWING MYSELF ROM THE PARCHMENT.