It's also pretty interesting, how my artistic inclination have evolved so, moving steadily from profile pencil sketches to landscape pencil to oil realistic to acrylic abstract
To impressionistic
To fantasia ,and conceptual..
Give me a word and I'll draw its definition, its color and the measure of its power...that's the sorta thing I dig these days. People moved from "this is amazing" to "I don't get it" slowly..
But one gets bored of all the limitations on what we call "art" you know, it doesn't make sense to people but it makes perfect sense to me, it's meant to make sense, you only have to live in my head...
I don't think one is supposed to produce a work devoid of any meaning and call it a masterpiece, especially when it's an abstract work...plunging in your pallet and splashing blotches here and there; this is a crime....I mean, you can't possibly call that inspiring, it's merely reduced to a form of dissipation. A violent and very deceitful form of self expression.
Being severe and physical doesn't correctly portray anger; the same way playing a Beethoven piece with that idea in mind results in an ear-grating performance instead of paying homage to his memory. But that's my own impression, mind you.
Someone I came across was complaining that artists try so hard to shove down messages through their work, and it got me thinking whether the real value of one's work lies in delivering its intended so-called "message", or successfully inducing a sense of grasping a message, real or fake..
"It means whatever you want it to mean", "It's up to your interpretation, because I certainly didn't mean anything"...strings of thought like that make me go as far as my distant childhood.
When I was a kid i read a few pages of a book I found in my sister's closet, it was hidden and got me anxious to know what it was about, more so that most of its pages were missing..It was a novel, but one of these Nietzsche-ish novellas with chances of philosophy trickling everywhere, only in Arabic ..The author was arguing that atheism on the grounds that the universe's inception was due to an elaborate string of fortuitous events, is utterly and completely ridiculous because, here comes :
You can't write down words on shreds of paper, throw them on a flat surface and expect them to form a well-structured , meaningful, memorable poem, in your tenth, hundredth, even the thousandth trial.
Chance may very well breed something of substance, but it could never be truly beautiful. Meaning is beautiful. Engineered, and intended. Thought of. With a strong will to get found and be heard.
A strong desire to abide and live.
Meaning.
And it made perfect sense to this curious 7 y/o..
Ever since then I used to spend a long while looking at the work of a stranger wondering to myself :
"What are they trying to say ?"
Years have passed and I'd stop petrified facing the exact usual dilemma of my youth, only on the other side: standing still, mind so loud, heart so noisy, staring at a blank canvas the same way I'd stare at a blank report page on the night of a deadline, not knowing what to do with it.
I was dwelling in a state of such confusion, one of these times, and....this old man comes up to me and says in a broken accent :
"You should switch off your mind, or you won't hear your heart clearly", as corny as that sounded.
But it nevertheless hit me then : it's not about the purpose. it's not a valedictorian speech, it doesn't have to scream out loud, and remind people of its presence. That is so pathetic, begging for recognition, and so very typical of me, considering my nature. It is all so wrong and pretentious.
One has to invest in putting in their own genuine feelings, rather than thoughts...And that is why I stopped making sense. Started flirting with concepts and phrases and lyrics and poems with my brush..My impressions, what I feel when i finish a book, how I feel when i'm listening to a song, how a certain word would bleed if you stab it with a point-pen; that opened all sorts of possibilities to me; and
It made me feel so alive, and happy.
A residual feeling you leave behind in your work could tell a great deal about you, and could have a value so heavy it makes you an immortal.
Because a concept, an idea, a poignant feeling, they never die.
I understood this when I was tried to paint what Anarchy looked like, and thinking to myself
"Would they see what I see?"
"Would they feel what I'm feeling right now?"
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