All art is quite useless :: essays research papers

every(prenominal) art is quite uselessIf people were labeled with just atomic number 53 tidings to represent them, to sum up their many chapters of life-time, one word to define them completely, then the label youd least come crossways would be that of artist. Seldom does one come to this earth with the natural ability, the enable to see the humanness as a painting, freshly finished on his canvas. The power to be forever praised on the walls of aging art museums. And the gazump courage to go th close together(p) life as an anomaly, a noble-minded breed that makes heads turn the other way.It go forth be one rough journey for the young artist, however. Life will throw him around in a complicated mixture of feelings, thoughts and emotions, as he will urgently seek to find out who he is and what his purpose in life is. As his mind keeps sinking in dark, depressive moments of contemplation, the world around him will gradually affect him less, and his subconscious will start bui lding the foundations of a brand new world, inside his head. A world where clocks fuse under the persistence of the moment, where the horizon bends under a spear and nature explodes into a force against which we are meaningless a world of beauty, color and contrast where poverty does not exist where pain, solitude, depression and worrying have no meaning.Trying to copy this odd world into both(prenominal)thing humanly translatable, the artist will spend day and night, paint and paper, ink and family trying to find a way to turn his vision into a reality. Speeding across the highways of creation, searching for a muse under every unturned stone, he will have most certainly picked up a few bad, mind altering addictive habits along the way. His corpse gradually deteriorates as he constantly stretches his senses to the limit, trying to get to some promised, higher level of existence, a metaphysical metamorphose, but never difference the cold ground. Hours blend with days and minut es turning time into a vague, discontinuous notion that the artist disconsideres while lost in an unstoppable, robotlike trance, creating piece after piece of critics junk that zilch cares for.Then he turns to love. The one last vice he doesnt need. He seeks for it through poems, centerfolds and dimly lit streets, pursuing the scent of pheromones sludge from every corner of the sacrilegious part of a town mean in moonlight.