black water

Randomly found.


“As Artists,

We’ve spent so much time trying to diversify our work—to make it different and stand out amongst the millions of other artists’ works—that we forget the simplicity of it all.

We forget the simplicity that is Art.

I’m not talking ‘red circle in a green square on a background of blue’, either.

We’ve neglected the quiet, little things, for so long that none of it matters when it comes time to stand up and challenge the bigger things.

Do you really think that in a thousand years, people will look back and remember our generation for the art that was produced? I’m not talking music, theater, or cinema, either—the remembrance of those art forms is apparently inevitable—I’m talking the basics. Basics that we look back through history and remember, and study today as forms of visual arts.

Unfortunately, I think not.

I fear we’ll be remembered for advanced motion picture viewing, obscure genres of music categorized into hundreds of pointless sub-genres, absolute shit architectural work, and ‘that guy’ that drew out multi-dimensional chalk works on the sidewalk one summer in New York. We’ll be remembered for anti-political/anti-governmental/anti-everything paint splattered over canvas, walls, billboards and picket-signs because that’s all people do anymore is complain about the imperfections of life, the fact that they can’t have anything their way, and in summation of point—the mistreatment of everyone and everything. We’ll be remembered for the money spent on pointless endeavors and the energy wasted on futile efforts for change.

Even Photography is so far-fetched and adapted that it almost doesn’t live up to its own definition unless you decide to dig deep into the heart of the art and research the artists that matter. Digital photography is so advanced that a model can wake up in the morning, pick up a magazine off a rack, and not even notice that their own face is staring back at them from the cover. From obese to thin and fit, from thin and fit to haggard and dilapidated, from fully clothed to completely naked; the concept of point, shoot and develop is dead. If it’s not dead, then it’s become so severely under-appreciated that we might as well all start shooting digital anyway.

Who then, will we remember as the Michelangelo of the 20th and 21st centuries? The Pollock’s, or the Rothko’s? The Borromini’s, or Ando’s? The Gowin’s or the Newman’s?

It’s an unfortunate thing that we remember most what is shoved in our faces. The true artists remain hidden under rocks, while generic atrocities make their way to the forefront of modern culture.

All of this is subject the debate, of course. This is, in itself, a form of art; writing. You could even say that debating is, as well, an art. But like all art, not everyone will understand. Not everyone will get the big picture. Nothing is right, nothing is wrong. This proof will tarnish that proof, when this proof is false and that proof is truth.

Yet something screams inside of me to remember the little things. The tiny details in the bigger picture; the littlest efforts to alter the path of an oncoming force. Like fireflies on a landscape backdrop, barely noticeable, or stars in the night sky over a city plagued with lights.”

“The day you realize just how shitty some people were, have been, can or could be, is the day you should legitimately stop giving a fuck about anyone but yourself.”

Hypocritical? Perhaps.

Selfish? Absolutely.

Worth it? That depends on your definition of “worth,” both self and non-self.

There is no Honor to be gained in a generation that wouldn’t give Trust a quarter if it were starving in the streets.

There is no Trust to be seen or gained—let alone kept—in a generation that continuously wipes its ass with Integrity and Loyalty.

There is no Integrity. There is never Loyalty. Not in this generation; a generation where we hang false ideals, petty reputation, and “word-of-mouth” higher than the Respect, Admiration and Love that is so often left out to dry.

Nor is there Love to be gained in a generation that can’t even hold fast a Heart for longer than the blink of an eye, on account of being so easily swayed by that which knows not Love.

Without these, there can and will be no Respect.

So what, then, is there to Admire in a Heart that knows no Respect for that which is given so “freely” to it?

What, then, is in a Heart with no Respect?

Disregarding whatever dim light remains therein, forced to pulsate by minute-to-minute fixes of modern Technology.

Disregarding the crimson—often confused for shades of gray; often confused with black and white.

What is in a Heart, if none of these things?

Nothing at all, I say.

If that’s the case, we may as well continue to tear each others’ Hearts out and paint the town red.

At the least, in a generation pretending to acknowledge everything and failing to acknowledge anything—we’d be left with Art. But everyone knows that nobody gives a fuck about Art anymore. Those who do, are the ones trying to convey all of these ideals lost to the Hearts of this generation.

Each of these ideals, though, are forms of “Art” in their own right, as much as they are key aspects of Life.

Love, especially.

It must get confusing trying to portray Art as Art, rather than Life as Art.

Maybe that’s our problem.

Our generation? At this point in time? We’re the bottom layer of a Jackson Pollock painting.

We’re fucked.







Copyright © 2011 Jamie Christie. All Rights Reserved.