I want to make an Art
The struggle to be creative while longing for meaning
Upon my lap, the keyboard lies inert,
While in my mind, creative flames still burn.
Death's icy breath alone prickles at my nape,
And words seem lacking for my lofty yearn.
No haunting image can my eyes behold,
And music's silent while my heart still drums,
Mere words cannot express the dream untold,
That in my soul's deep chambers ever hums.
That is not an art. is it… It says what I want and is technically a poem, but is it an art? not to me…
On my lap, a keyboard at rest
In my mind, creativity's zest
Death's breath on my neck
heart beats in my chest
Words fail to connect
Wow, death keeps showing up in there doesn’t it.
Death drew a pen across the page with a ghastly scratch. Blood flowed from the tip, scrawling ribbons of precious words on the beaten and compressed flesh of the dead trees bound in the most supple skin. Are those my words? Have they been stolen from me or collected for me? Why can’t I read them? Are my eyes too far gone to see the magical words I long to write? Is my mind too far gone to find them?
Oh, sweet death, my secret friend I will never know when you'll bring my end So why should I fret and foam Over when you will come and take me home
O, I try too hard
But what does that even mean?
I struggle so much thinking about what I should or could be making. The title is not a lie, I want to make art. I want to create a work that means something to more than just me. It would be nice if it stood the test of time, but that isn’t a requirement. Why?
I don’t want praise, fans, or acclaim, but I want to connect with others through my stories. After all, isn’t that what the stories are for?
What is the point of fiction?
Fuck if I know. I am a human, and humans are story creatures. Our minds retain information better when it is presented as a story, but that doesn’t mean we only tell stories to remember things. We tell stories to find joy, catharsis, whimsy, and inspiration.
I am not sure fiction needs to have a point or purpose. Sometimes a story exists because it is a good or entertaining story. That is enough. It is pointless to ascribe a singular meaning, purpose, or function to fiction.
What is an Art then?
Why is there an indefinite article there? It doesn’t make sense! The question should be, “What is Art?”
Sorry, but that is wrong. We could argue all day long about the nature of art, but I don’t want to make all art or define art for everyone for all time. I want to make an art, a singular piece of art. I would be thrilled to have a whole back catalog of art, but I would be happy with at least one singular piece.
Well, silly fantasy stories with sharkhounds and bizarre monster are not art. Even you have to see that, right?
Because it is not serious! It is silly, strange, and too cozy to be art.
Art doesn’t have to be serious to be good.
No. I mean, I don’t think so. Why would it have to be?
Art is anything that speaks to the soul, the heart, and the deepest parts of the mind. Sometimes humor and silliness are required to get through the defenses and reach the part that needs it.
Some of the best art hits us in a preverbal way, where words cannot express why it means so much. We don’t always have to be able to explain why or how art moves us.
Art can be commercial, silly, strange, profound, uncomfortable, cozy, understandable, confusing, beautiful, intentional, unintentional, flawed, holy, true, or full of lies.
I see what you are doing. You are trying to argue that AI art is actually art! You took the long road, but when haven’t you?
That wasn’t my intention, but now that you mention it, yes. Art doesn’t require intention. I know a lot of people want to argue that it does to preserve human agency and a labor market under capitalism. I have seen trees that were art, sculpted by nature. Geodes are art. Nature is an artist, but there is no intention to make beauty to speak to the deepest parts of my soul, so why can’t AI do the same thing?
Isn’t something art more because of how we receive it than the intention of its creator? We find meaning in music, poetry, and prose that their creators never intended to be in it. The author is dead, long live the author.
If art can happen by accident, then why are you so interested in learning how to do it and worrying whether you can or have ever made art?
Oh, Little Sister
Lighten your grip on my shoulder
I know I belong to you,
but time has not yet come.
Let me whisper what wonder
my broken red heart can imbue
in my words, no matter how dumb.
Let me hold the dreams I plunder
to find the words I do.