Had I swore off intellect and decided to live in my own isolated world of ignorance, as I discussed in my last post, I probably would have been one of those artists whose work thrived off violence and reprehensible behaviour. Even today, these types of artists have potential to entertain me, without putting thought into their work, or, in some cases, even making it original. Frankly, I think I have a more creative mind than I do a logical one, and as a result I might have been able to make art that was interesting without actually being meaningful, at least intentionally.
This is the problem with this blog, I am constantly saying the same things over again when my head begins to draw blanks. No one’s going to read 111 posts of this nonsense anyways, so I should probably give up now.
On second thought, that wouldn’t be very artistic of me.
Growing up I had a passion for violence, and this passion has carried on throughout the years. Separation from others has made me lose my compassion, although some of it has come back in recent years. Thinking about it, my love for fake violence as a way of releasing my anguish and disgust with the people who allowed for things to get this bad–for me and, much more importantly, those locked in cells, awaiting torture, or those with poor shelter wishing for food–is almost as strong as my despise of real violence. I get sick from the sight of seeing people and things get hurt or, worse yet, killed, including lady bugs or moths. Had I not been using my brain, I’d probably be much less sensitive, and although I may have learned some fear of my own death, which I hadn’t learned until I moved away from “home,” I would have no respect for the lives of others. Logically, I probably shouldn’t now.
But still, I love art that depicts such brutality, in many cases, as an outlet.