*R. Landfield – The Blue Whale
Alright, this time it’s on the topic of art as a quest of looking for a missing object (MacGuffin!). You remember Moby Dick, the major achievement of this genere, you might know Pynchon’s V, which is most clever as you can’t really tell if the precious, saught-after V was an object, a person or even an idea.
The point is that it’s all auto-referencial art, these are works of art that speak about art itself. Artists create those fictional worlds to tell you about their own amazing investigations, not some real, lost objects. I mean it doesn’t concern just people looking for something but it presents the essence of art, meaning artistic search for the perfect work of art. The one that catches this magical ingredient to the fullest extend.
I can’t imagine our world without fog in it. Much less the works of art that are full of clarity. Maybe that’s because fog is ever ambigious, unclear and touching. In our overstimulated lifes it’s a nature’s way of letting us have some peace of mind, separating us from the excess of the objects in the background. Imagination as well as Goya’s demons come into play, the scene is set just for them.
-> read on ->
[We try to discover in things, endeared to us on that account, the spiritual glamour which we ourselves have cast upon them; we are disillusioned, and learn that they are in themselves barren and devoid of the charm which they owed, in our minds, to the association of certain ideas; sometimes we mobilise all our spiritual forces in a glittering array so as to influence and subjugate other human beings who, as we very well know, are situated outside ourselves, where we can never reach them. On cherche à retrouver dans les choses, devenues par là précieuses, le reflet que notre âme a projeté sur elles; on est déçu en constatant qu’elles semblent dépourvues dans la nature, du charme qu’elles devaient, dans notre pensée, au voisinage de certaines idées; parfois on convertit toutes les forces de cette âme en habileté, en splendeur pour agir sur des êtres dont nous sentons bien qu’ils sont situés en dehors de nous et que nous ne les atteindrons jamais.]
M. Proust – Swann’s Way
I put that in brackets as I had to contain these thoughts in something. Every chapter on Proust’s novel is what he found inside, in his head, in his very own associations. You can see how deep he descended as he mourned that people really differ from how we imagine them. He only dreamed of ‘mentally eating’ everyone, taking everything in, dismantling all the phisical outlines. He was a romantic genius yearning for the power to play with the world as if it was clay. Or his imagined clay, even more flexible.
You might even say that he had an obssesion of doing what only the time itself was able to do; that is to effortlessly reshape all things on earth, from tiniest grains of sand to the highest, never unfrozen mountains.
read on —->
What can I say? There are times when holding a needle and thread, or a book, or a man – it’s all the same.