The days of filling books with great, insightful prose has given way to a different form of book: the notebook. The rough-edged touch of paper; the gentle whoosh of pages being turned; the smell of ink or aged paper trailing with the doting follower to park or beach or between home and work, has all but been cast away and the new medium is no longer assigned only to the privileged, but to all.
It would be easy to find joy in this new accessibility of a fledgeling art, but in truth, I find it difficult to gather the wind in my lungs to offer a triumphant whoop; instead, I offer only a magnificent yawn.
That is said, or meant to be said, without pretension, however, I gather the image of me is already pinging around the walls of your mind, not unlike that cartoon image of Yosemite Sam’s bullets ricocheting off of every available tree. I suppose I’ll take a stab: there is obviously a certain amount of neon, be on the arms of my 80’s shades, my sneakers, but where ever the neon lives, I can assure you that it accentuates the ashen shade of my acid washed jeans. Toss a fixie in there, and slap on whatever Mission, Williamsburg, Shoreditch hipster trend you want, and sadly…it does not fit. But, what this tangent was intended to do was portray myself, not as some bandwagon traditionalist, dreaming of the fair-weather days of strife and toil of artists so admired; or the hedonistic image of those said artists lounging with cigarette and wine in some sad cafe, capturing the mood of the beholder. But rather, as an individual who holds print media in the highest esteem.
Deep down, I hate the ability for anyone to set up shop in the written world and pass their thoughts around as though they were golden. I was raised on the exclusivity of the medium, it was what initially drew me to it. That beautiful ability to find the words that define my feelings, my personal sentiments towards life and how I fit into it; to hold it in my hands as though my thoughts and feelings had become tangible, and were explained, made me want to live in that world, with that ability, alone.
But, it is exactly that which compels me to hate the art. To hate art in general, a great deal of the time. There is a detrimental perception that only the hyper intelligent may put pen to paper, or even, eye to paper, forgetting that so much of that idea boarders on discrimination. We are conditioned to believe that artists carry great sway in this world, and gaining entrance into their exclusive club is offered to a slim few.
So, what am I trying to say? What is with all of this duplicity, and flip-flopping? Well, I don’t know really. That, I believe is the point. There are so many negatives in the blogosphere, but simultaneously, there are just as many positives to balance the phenomenon. How are we to move with it, while preserving the wonderful tradition of print? I suppose if we were to approach it as though it were a vice, not unlike alcohol or cigarettes, or fast food, and take it all with moderation. For instance, if one were to have an ice cream following lunch, have an apple after dinner. If you are to eat a steak for dinner, eat some greens for lunch. There must be a give and take relationship to print and digital media. But that in itself brings to light a separate issue, it assumes that everything doled out online is a self-indulgent, self-serving falsity and print media is truth. This is not true, but merely the work of the editing process, and social expectations of print media.
So, we are stuck. Or, I am stuck; struggling to understand what it is I want, and how it is I feel. I may never know, but I will always think fondly upon a time when the easy answer was not a click away via the internet…hell, that’s where I am now, and still I am unhappy and confused. Forget it, I just wish I were not a failed author so that I didn’t have to start this machine…
Stay tuned for an attempt at documenting art, and the life of artists living on the fringe; how the modern suburbs and aspiring artists intermingle. Or, more ranting about this or that.