Sometimes I am afraid of the arts. The main reason is the life that I see in a specific picture or in a concrete artwork. It happens so that I can't truly appreciate the peoples works, because of the energy and the colours in them, which are making me sick.
The artists – howling wolves trying to be themselves vomiting their inner worlds. Most of the time I can't bear their understandings. It’s like watching a body without skin and fats – only muscles, red flesh, so red that it makes you want to cut yourself to check out if there’s a possibility to be one of them. Peeled like some sick bastards with a butterfly skin.
And here it comes. My love with the arts. This irritating feeling to see somebody's happiness or sadness overall, emotional world painted on a piece of…of something. This curiosity to see what will happen to your soul and understandings after visiting one or two galleries in a week, this is killing me. We actually are what we see and accept, but aren’t we what we see without accepting it?
The last time when I was putting my outfit on I thought “Great, another piece of shit on you, you're so unique (sarcasm) dressing yourself like every wanna-be artist.” The word “unique” nowadays is a rumour, just simply because no one is. You cannot look unique, there's someone who can have the same looks as you do. Independence in its visual art is quite impossible; the manner is that makes you look independent from everything you have seen. And indeed the manner is the same visual mistake…you've seen something and you're coping it, your thoughts are built from the outer world. The social area destroys your life view and personality which are already created from one's personality and in its own reality it is a kunstprodukt.
The artists are their works and their works are the artist believes.
I may not be a good artist, am I indeed damn it, an artist…don't really care what exactly I am. Actually I am nothing, I am not me, I am a complex of everyone I've seen. We are all nothing but synthetic products of the area we're living in. Our dreams and hopes are already reality in our brains and they aren't really dreams. Why should we have a need to dream of something which is produced by someone else's dreams? Only the pure feelings which cannot be drawn, written, said are these which make us unique and independent in the art of living.
The artists – howling wolves trying to be themselves vomiting their inner worlds. Most of the time I can't bear their understandings. It’s like watching a body without skin and fats – only muscles, red flesh, so red that it makes you want to cut yourself to check out if there’s a possibility to be one of them. Peeled like some sick bastards with a butterfly skin.
And here it comes. My love with the arts. This irritating feeling to see somebody's happiness or sadness overall, emotional world painted on a piece of…of something. This curiosity to see what will happen to your soul and understandings after visiting one or two galleries in a week, this is killing me. We actually are what we see and accept, but aren’t we what we see without accepting it?
The last time when I was putting my outfit on I thought “Great, another piece of shit on you, you're so unique (sarcasm) dressing yourself like every wanna-be artist.” The word “unique” nowadays is a rumour, just simply because no one is. You cannot look unique, there's someone who can have the same looks as you do. Independence in its visual art is quite impossible; the manner is that makes you look independent from everything you have seen. And indeed the manner is the same visual mistake…you've seen something and you're coping it, your thoughts are built from the outer world. The social area destroys your life view and personality which are already created from one's personality and in its own reality it is a kunstprodukt.
The artists are their works and their works are the artist believes.
I may not be a good artist, am I indeed damn it, an artist…don't really care what exactly I am. Actually I am nothing, I am not me, I am a complex of everyone I've seen. We are all nothing but synthetic products of the area we're living in. Our dreams and hopes are already reality in our brains and they aren't really dreams. Why should we have a need to dream of something which is produced by someone else's dreams? Only the pure feelings which cannot be drawn, written, said are these which make us unique and independent in the art of living.
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