Thursday, 4 April 2013
"And you feel... alive?" she asked.
I woke up, bathing the penetrating noon's sunlight from the naked window. My shoulders and my back were aching from weaving the blackout dream on the floor, but it was a better day than the day before.
I had finished the irritating blue bird drawing-- as a graphic designer, I had to design graphics based on requests which weren't usually subjective. Those "I want this- I want that- put this here- put that there-" bullshits were sickening! And they said that I could strive my creativity? What a joke.
I loved art, I had always love art. Art meant freedom and doing what I was doing weren't art, it was a mere job. Art was not obligated to bullshits they call project, assignment, or request. Heck, I had to still do it for cash.
There was once when I was a newbie-- fresh and stupid. I was assigned to make a banner, I forgot what was the banner for but I did it with passion and art. Then they said it was "too explicitly raw" and "not meeting the criteria of the request". And I thought exploitation was a problem. They care only for the sizes-- the bigger, the better (more money). It was always about those printed papers. Always.
I stood by the window, watching the shadows of the walking kids. Shadows reminded me of my in-the-making artwork in the special room, which I need to work on. I grabbed my sweater and walked out of the front door of my house.
Art is subjective. So as beauty. Beauty is art and art is beauty. Art is filthy, dingy, drab, lame, and etcetera. Filthy wasn't always bad, same goes to the others. It was also a matter of perspective and taste. I find their tastes suck, they find mine sucks-- fair enough, although the latter was stupid.
I felt some disgusted glares burning on my skin. They didn't realise that they were as much as greasy as I looked-- but let them live in their delusional world.
Wires, black paints and paint brushes-- finally I can continue on my artwork.
A month, I took a month to finish it. But it needed some final touch; the liveliness.
"How is it that the room you painted black and the murders in that room made you feel alive?" she asked, again.
"My art is alive. I am art and art is me."