Las Aventuras en el Abismo Estrecho

Adventures on the Narrow Straights:
an analysis of the stretched abyss


Bad art

It was a kind of murder. Murder through materialisation, is that possible? Art school has materialised the concept of 'art' as a formulation for me, and as such, killed any notion of art in me. I get irritated about the fact that the artist feels his or her view on the matter is important, so important in fact, that it should rise above any other formulation to be considered 'art.' It used to be about taking this feeling I get sometimes and putting it into a form... not into style, or medium, or discourse, or copyright. It was just a way to silence the little voices, to put away that feeling of solitude, to formulate a coherent explanation for what was around me. But now, I can't do it anymore because it's too formulated. I feel the spark, I can sense that muse, that stirring inside that there is something there that's empty or full or something... but I don't know what to do with it because I keep trying to put it into some kind of context.
But I think there's a new twist to the matter, as I look at what I've made before. Despite my desolation with the useless idea that my ideas are better than anyone else's, there is something that I hope will grow to become a means to my own art, to making, to feeling that need again. It is time. It is the fleeting feeling, the quicksand. It is the fact that although I think my ideas are rubbish or that they will not stick out above the rest, they are there. Otherwise it's just like all the other thoughts running through my head, gone. And then I can't look back in disgust, because really, I can't really remember what it was that I thought back then. The years go by and I realise I want to fight with my past self, with the ideas I thought important before. I want to make 'bad' art. Because it's something for me to fight with - my own context, maybe?

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