Lost in the Expression

I was genuinely disturbed yesterday. Caught in the ramblings of a drunken art student, I discovered the desperate, morbid side of personal expression. Artistic work that is neither redeeming or purposeful - wrapped up entirely in the insanity of itself.

I am incredibly facinated by the creativity that artists possess. There are insights into truths, colors, angles, fabric, visions - sometimes perfectly released onto pages, or environments. They inspire me with their complexity, and intrigue me with their depth. My favorite type of artist, is the one that can completely express the beauty buried deep down inside their souls. Its amazing to see the very essence of a person portrayed in their work - the motion, the reasons that the person exists, right there in front of you. Those moments are priceless.
When I draw or paint, I feel that joy coming out of my body - the passion for living, and the excitement become part of the work. You can see it in the finished work. It has beauty.

Sometimes we forget that we cannot create beauty - we merely uncover it. Beauty is not something that we develop, or discover, or manipulate - it has always existed, we just see pieces of it from time to time; in ourselves, and in others.

Last night, I saw examples of angry, depressed people, creating morbid, depressing work, and calling it beautiful. Between the jumble and the intentional confusion, the artists were attempting to establish their own subjective beauty. Somehow we begin to equate creative with beautiful, - somehow we expect that if we dig deep enough between disturbing lines, we'll find something illuminous. Curious. I was neither impressed nor inspired.




(Andrew Tipton)