All art is quite useless :: essays research papers

All fine art is quite uselessIf people were labeled with just one word to represent them, to sum up their many chapters of life, one word to define them completely, then the label youd least come across would be that of artist. Seldom does one come to this hide out with the natural ability, the gift to see the world as a blushering, freshly finished on his canvas. The power to be forever praised on the walls of aging art museums. And the shear courage to go th vulgar life as an anomaly, a rare breed that makes heads turn the other way.It will 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 desperately taste 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 dissemble him less, and his subconscious will start building the foundations of a brand new world, inside his h ead. A world where clocks melt downstairs the persistence of the moment, where the position bends under a quill and nature explodes into a force against which we are meaningless a world of beauty, color and contrast where poverty does non exist where pain, solitude, depression and agony have no meaning.Trying to copy this odd world into something humanly translatable, the artist will spend day and night, paint and paper, ink and blood 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 eubstance 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 leaving the algid ground. Hours blend with days and minutes turning time into a vague, discontinuous notion that the artist disconsideres while lost in an unstoppable, mechanical trance, creating piece by and by piece of critics junk that nobody cares for.Then he turns to love. The one last vice he doesnt need. He seeks for it through poems, centerfolds and palely lit streets, pursuing the scent of pheromones oozing from every corner of the sacrilegious part of a town soaked in moonlight.