Another boring composition

Another boring composition fraught with meaning, a surrealist landscape, bits and pieces of fact and fable in space of mostly nothing. I try to compose the things with shadow and light, with figure and ground. But, I fail, resorting to photoshop trickery to try to save my artistic ass.

I can’t bring myself to draw what I see, for example to go outside and paint the usually gorgeous sunset in my back yard. Right now, I’m thinking of making a drawing: not of a sunset, not even me drawing that sunset, instead an easel set out there with a painting of me painting, facing away from it, painting me watching me painting. If that makes any sense.

I could set up some fruit and vegetables to draw, but what’s the point of that? Still lifes are more boring than landscapes. Nudes are definitely interesting but sad to say, I’ve no opportunities to draw them. Or even drawing from a photo, something I used to do all the time. Now, I sketch slyly alone, hiding from the action. I draw me, drawing me, drawing a metaphor of what I feel is happening in me, to me.

“Love and work are the cornerstones of our humanness” — Freud

“One can live magnificently in this world if one knows
how to work and how to love” — Tolstoy

Artarbeitamour. Work, defined as being accepted in a society; accepted conditionally by more or less, all of its others. And love, almost on the contrary, is being accepted unconditionally by a single other. Work and love are on a continuum; the former is about pleasing everyone a little and the latter is about (almost) totally pleasing a single someone. Art being –in my case–the attempted, and foolishly inadequate, means to either of those ends.

But there is art for arts sake isn’t there? I mean even I get into an art while drawing sometimes. The lines and blobs draw me into them and I lose (self) consciousness. Then it’s the process, not the product that’s desirable. Abstract expressionist art is boring to look at. The only way I can enjoy it is to imagine making it.

Therefore, art is all about the content. The top panel: It’s about exploration in the work world and attachment to parts of it. The artist is a perpetual infant. Is he avoidant? he does work by himself. Or is he anxious? He’s drawing the potential ridicule of the others.

And in the bottom panel, it’s about exploration in the love world and attachment to a part of it. Art as love, more literally, the metaphor of meeting a woman half way via art-as-bridge. The drawn possibility of it versus the real improbability. On the canvas in the drawing, the woman is available, in the reality of the art she is not.

Thinking is an experimental dealing with small quantities of energy,
just as a general moves miniature figures over a map… – Freud

As is art.

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