Aesthetic crap

Every artist is an art critic. (I.e., you look at your own stuff and say (A) It’s good. (B) It sucks.) God help me, I’m an artist. Hey, I ain’t saying I’m good. But that’s what I am. Some line of code in my DNA says I exist to make words and images that rock. If I’m not doing that, my hardwired teleological imperative says I suck.

So. Thus. Achtung.
At an early age, I discovered how much fun it was smearing paint on paper and making stuff. Solar systems, whatever. My world and welcome to it.

Zen? You want to talk about Zen?

Ha-ha.

I know what it is, kids. I know that feeling of letting my hand go free and perfectly capturing the line of a face. Shit! I did that? Yeah! I did! And I wasn’t even trying. Now …

Wait for it.

I wanna do it again!

But. If you trace the spontaneous creation. It ain’t spontaneous anymore.

If you try to repeat the magic.

You kill it.

To the rational mind, this mystic art shit is just plain irrational. The rational mind wants systems, formulas and repeatable results. The rational mind says, “Dance, monkey! Dance!” The inner monkey that creates all the good stuff says, “Fuck you.”

And, here, at last, we come to the punk aesthetic.

You can’t be slick and real at the same time.

I wish I could make it more profound than that.

But that’s pretty much all there is.