It's Everything That Is Connected And Beautiful

I find most art books to be utterly uninteresting and unengaging. I think it's the skill with which the art is photographed and reproduced on the page that puts me off. It's glossy, slick and perfect and it almost always bears no resemblance to what the artist created. There really is no substitute for being in the same physical space as a work of art, for sharing the same air and light as this thing. It becomes more real for me and I feel a real sense of communion that I never find from a reproduced image on a page.

Art in a book is separated from reality and the limits of the physical world. It becomes eternal and perfect, and I hate it. I hate it for the same reason that I am utterly bored by Superman. Because it is so removed, so unassailable and so fundamentally alien. It bores me.

But when I can see a piece of art, see the light reflected off of it with my own eyes, that is something very different. I never feel jaded when I stand face to face with a work of art, even the really shitty ones. Ultimately, I find beauty in the flaws. When I can see the grain of a canvas, or the irregular swirl in a brushstroke, or an errant drop of paint that landed on the picture in defiance of the artist's wishes, I see myself, and my flaws, and I find it very reassuring. We live in a flawed, beautiful world and seeing these works or art, and all of their cracks and blemishes, reminds me of just how beautiful this imperfect world can be.

There's also an impermanence to these objects. And they are, after all, simply objects. Paint, cloth, wood, bronze, clay, etc. These things begin as unremarkable pieces of stuff, and through human industry and invention become transcendent. That's fucking beautiful. But they remain things, existing in our physical world, and all things are impermanent. Things break down, they disappear. Each moment they are on display, each moment they exist, brings them one moment closer to their inevitable end. I work in an archive and the one thing I've picked up is that everything we try to preserve will one day perish from this earth, no matter what we do. Lock it up in a sealed, UV-protected vault at the Louvre all you want, but someday we will have to live in a world without the Mona Lisa. That's fucking beautiful. That's life. It's sad, and terrible and tragic and beautiful. It's perhaps the best metaphor for the human condition that I have ever found, and I'm constantly looking.

I just wanted you all to remember that I do have a soul as you listen to the hate-filled piece of shit I recorded at Othello's this week. And to all my friends who stuck around for the whole show, I apologize for throwing such a weird and embarrassing hissy. And thanks for coming out anyway, I hope you had a good time.

Winston Smith's Five Minute Hate

And go to the Oklahoma City Art Museum, dammit.

We Come In, We Go Out The Same Way: Alone.

I had a dream this morning. I dreamt that I went back to school at OCU to finish my Master's. Why? I have no idea. I was dreaming, all right? I moved into a dorm/academic hall, into a teeny tiny dorm room with two other people. They just happened to be Lucy Davis and Columbus Short from "Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip." Cool roommates, right? The whole thing felt like my freshman year of college. In the dream, I looked around, felt a strange sense of circuity, and said to myself "well, we come in, we go out the same way."

Then all hell broke loose.

This dark thing, some kind of bipedal monster, appeared and started slashing people's throats. Blood, screaming, dead and dying falling all around, decomposing before my eyes. I've had the image in my head all day. I do have some control over my dreams, though, and I saved Lucy (well, not me, but I changed the narrative so that she lived). She hid in a mascot's outfit until the thing had passed. I can't remember if it killed me or not.

I awoke for the first time in my adult life on the verge of screaming. But I was raised Presbyterian, so I kept my emotions under control, like a Calvinist Vulcan. I shook it off and went on with my day.

About five hours later I heard what had happened in Virginia.

I sit here now, staring at the screen trying to wrap my mind around this horrible tragedy and pull it out of my brain, but I can't. So many thoughts, reactions, images and words swim through my mind right now that I just can't. I can't fucking do it.

All I can think is that anyone who wags their tongue today about the Second Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America is an asshole, either way. This isn't about gun ownership and whether or not it should be legal/regulated/restricted/whatever. That discussion will come later, and I'm sure it will be ugly.

This story isn't about the law. It is about a monster that lived outside the law, that grew inside of a man and was left unchecked for too long. It's about the innocent people of Virginia Tech, now awash in blood and tears, and how they will continue to face down this brutal act long after the specters of today have faded from our minds and the next tragedy seizes our country by the throat.

But that isn't the end of the story. We've seen this cycle before. The pain, the grief, it pales in comparison to the resilience of humanity found in those who have been tested by such sorrow and pain. I know that the people of Virginia will overcome this, and go on to find hope and peace. I know this story will end with hope.

I can't think of anything else to say, except that I'm sorry.

God bless.