Sunday, February 20, 2011

"Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on grown-ups who snubbed you in your childhood..."

Title taken from George Orwell's "Why I Write" (to be found in the discussion of motivation, listed under the category of "Sheer egoism").

I suppose this blog factors into that kind of thing. It is documentation, a little forum for externalisation, highly mediated soul baring/sharing/...underwearing? Whatever.

In case you hadn't guessed it's navel gazing time again. I haven't done much art lately so quiet time has involved mostly reading and thinking.
More thinking than anything, if I'm going to be honest.

My motivation is trapped down a well. I am posessed by that familiar feeling of being adrift, with too little productivity under my belt to counterbalance it. So I'm just going to sit here for a bit and wait for the cabin fever. (Until semester begins. At which point I will start complaining and panicking.)

I have isolated my most likely area of focus for honours as being the universal failure of individuals to come to terms with the incalculable, incomprehensible, in flux... dysfunctional schema and incomplete hypotheses. You know, pointless attempts to negate fear of the unknown through inaccurate rationalisation, or something.* I will attempt to frame this within some sort of achitectural context, hopefully with psychobabble and possibly cannibals. Maybe find some quiet laffs, some "art funnies" (defined in their being so subtle that they're hardly funny at all) in it.

My thinking on this is made quite dangerous by its operation on two levels, however. It's basically a model of my own confusion, which means I'm going to have to work with something I hold very close in some way.

One of my lecturers foresaw this years ago. I don't think I really want this.

Well, okay, I do. But it's going to be tricky. I think that perhaps art making's some manifestation of the death drive.
Can someone pass me some smack and a tube of black paint, please?

(Absurdity stay with me please. Don't be scared off by books and theories.)


*Upon re-reading I considered writing, instead of "fear", "fear/incomprehension". Aside from the fact that I'm fairly sure that's a made up word, I find it interesting that I'd equate lack of knowing with terror. I have a need for something constant. Some invariable point of reference. Is that what everyone wants?

Answer: Maybe. [x] [x]

"If the point is unpack, unburden, unforget… how can anyone else quite understand? Usually when a diary is publishable, there seems a layer of artifice to it, a stagecraft to the self-examination."

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