‘The Gallerist’: a short grumbling on a character
Part 1- On Content
Look, I know you’re a real gem and all, and that can be new for a time, so long as to pass (the way I did in disgust on our every encounter). No, I don’t mean you, not you in the flesh, no! Unless you’ll go so far as to identify with your work (oh please do!) like a mother would a child, or maybe the cat, and of course animals inflict a smaller wound on your conscience. Only then, Artist, would I be pleased to know your presumptuous amalgamation of categorically “interesting stuff” could amount to something meaningful to me, in its conmisdirected suicide.
Just short of alienating everyone I respect (oh you know who, my loves) hold, and in those hours and our times you surely know I was with you, or no? If our times were good, and certainly they were! Well then. You see, I’ve gone to great lengths to debate with you, out of love and honor I’ve listened, and in our times I will respect and stand by your work and intentions as only a friend would. But now, I’m not talking to you anymore, Artist, you’ve left the arena.
I can’t go a good city block without you lambasting my intellect. So small, too! Not a hall or a bar, no space public or private, in or out of doors. Even my subconscience has been attacked by your wrath, your content, gussied up in what ever commits you to nothing less than savagery, a dearth of emotional and devotional depth, a poverty of what? Of necessity to create at all?
You see, I’m beginning to lose my faith in the intrinsic nature of beauty, in humans whom, without the slightest intention leave a trail of light. But there again, I’ve not lost it at all! I love each and every one of you for your nature. So quit sabotaging it! Quit posturing. Just gone and get! I’m not going to feed you the answers, your own eyes are the sucre, and no answer will I come to know save for stagnation. If you find yourself on the fringe of your medium, and opportune it is, please refrain from using an artifice, a sign or pattern, an assumption, a device or method (unless in series’, driven by or for an idea, so as to identify a problem, question, certainty, possibility, incredulity! Anything).
All else is violence. I don’t get my entertainment through violence, and certainly not my peace. No, sarcasm is not violence. Not until it becomes your mode of delivering it. If you like a trend, write about it. If you can’t write, sing it, live it, what ever. If you like pictures that’s your own deal, don’t make it mine. Know, Artist, that I am able to rest if at all in a fatness of solitude, as a morbid might, scrabbling for an unlicked bone. It is only in silence that I come to know myself from the static, and you: us three, and it’s fucking magnetic.
Part 2- On Scathing Diatribes
But then I find myself in other minds, of my own and yet others, wherein nothing seems to matter. In this state it is natural to construct a reinvention of a type unassociated with the past, no more reinvention than invention itself, uninfluenced.
Like so, the nature of knowledge has run its course and found the fruits of intention, answers that we were already looking for, thus boring and useless when realized. What can be said about this tendency? Creation and discovery seem merely tied to empirical knowledge by a bridge of antonymous motives, one seeking the pleasure of a glimpse into the unknown, the other a hoarder of facts instantaneously deemed uninteresting by their inability to produce further pleasure. The nature of empirical fact is timeless, even before it is encountered. The trajectory of science at large can be nearly categorized as the study of boredom, the nature of displeasure, facility.
I don’t mean to get philosophical, Artist, that too can get annoying. I really want to entertain you, for you are my audience and what good will philosophy do for an audience uninterested? It’s as much to ask you what you want, Artist. I serve you, and we certainly can’t be interested in the same things. Not if that requires you to participate, think, read, take care of yourself, like any willing Sentient should.
No, I must assume everyone is on your side of being, the side on which the option to really just exist and consume has taken on superlative meaning, not even in the capitalist sense but better! You exist in the physical sense, You! You’ve taken a spirit and body through the only transformation you’ve ever sought: your entire existence has become mechanical, down to the mimicry employed in your decision to become mechanical. (Genius!)
You’ve done so well as to see your world through your own eyes and take action (and my do you have an eye for the obvious). Those biggest constructions, so elaborate, colossal, absolutely dripping with meaning: you’ve applied them to your life! Your aptitude for simile has reached optimum performance. Not even an actor could assume your role more passionately, your state of complete denial, your militant eradication of all things unnamable and therefore disconcerting. I love you!
If anyone, of course I’m talking to you, Artist. That shallow way you look into my soul as a miser, minimizing possibility, leveling to the standard perfection, Yourself, and proceeding coolly to your next successful consummation. Oh those eyes hide a treasure! I just want to feel that way forever.
Part 3- On Contentment
Perhaps more poignant, the use of metaphor seems relevant here. Artist, my love is at odds with you. You make it hard, and I am truly full of love-want. So few are the moments I honestly care for your position, your lack of real value in my life. Perhaps only through metaphor can I get to you. Dissolving my own position, I can see you, Me, It, and from where else? Right here. And so, the Leaf.
In times of light the leaf knows only blackness, knows only as much as anything else the nature of the source. It is absorption, pure, encompassing all in its reception, black as coal. A rare and true sort of empathetique, an organ. This is how I’d like to imagine you, Artist, Anyone, in your best and undoctored moment, as I have with others in my attempts at inhabiting new shells, separate minds.
It is in this manner that I’ve come to know perception, from my place, informed by others’ and science (that malcontented specter) whose interactions have opened a wheel; color, chroma, palate, sine. This wheel has no dictation on its occupants, it remains embedded as a structure toward which all understanding hearkens, an arena for your will. And so, after my study of the leaf, I am inclined to believe this blackness may be its reality, not from my position but a position all its own, wherein I’ve studied its process, its character. This, this blackness, I’ve known to represent its feeling, in my realm, its perception of the sun. This is our language, the communication we can have, as abstract as our positions are in relation, this color is our commonality.
In its contentment there is also night, wherein the white so hot as the whole takes shape without the sun, pulling so much more finely at its core, the weight of closest sunlight straight below, the Earth below, all gravity directed headlong at the leaf as through antennae, and green as it is, there is time enough for the leaf to speak the language of old signals sent long from every nervous location, each burning star, to weave upon synthesis an awareness marked by presence.
What I can’t understand, Artist, is the part of this knowledge that constitutes any real difference from my concept of ‘thought’ in humans or animals. Admittedly, even vegetation has a DNA structure, plenty long to warrant awareness. Life, certainly, comes to mind, but what of consciousness and sentience? What is it so near to cowardice that prohibits my acceptance or appreciation of these phenomenal realities in my humanly stupor? Sure, I’ve come to acknowledge them, but where is the effect? A very endearing sense of naïveté comes to me at the thought of being unable to internalize realities more full of beauty than I’m capable of bearing, it is a smile or a laugh, Artist, a youngness borne within me to see beyond my métier, to know why I am built to function without complete knowledge.
And yes, it is sappy, or even more so: far out. Why do you refuse to care? I see your illusions pleasing you, and it is sloth, vanity. Yet the very source of my own happiness is connected to my need for this smallness of self; in moderate doses I need to know my actuality as nothing in order to love accordingly. My place can be minuscule as any other but I also get a sense of the infinite through experiencing the happiness doled out by grasping reality. Otherwise I will inflate as a buoy might, as you have, jettisoned to the depth of a sea characterized by your blindness, aware only of illusion.
I sense that my own eye has opinions, yes, in the way we consider and define opinions as humans, as choices and qualities kept and lost at will, a wooden change brought on out of necessity, efficiency. It is the primitive at work in us. In time it takes on a physical manifestation. I see that my ideas about the leaf are misguided, maybe. Should it truly be black? To me? Is there intention in my inability to see what I know as truth? Is that truth, even? For the leaf? Moreover, could the truths at which you’ve so quickly arrived in fact be false, too certain, too much like empirical fact? Why should your concept of truth differ much from that wheel, toward which you will ascend but never conquer?
Truth, perhaps dual, malleable, undefined, yet here my eye in its bodily extents cannot unlearn as a system the new laws my mind has come to know. I cannot change myself physically as a tool for perception, but maybe this change is meant to be internal, loaded with the purpose of questioning reality.
Is this failure? No, this cannot be failure. No, it is reality. It is truth in fallibility. I know the black I’ve seen at night is a fiction, perhaps the greatest fiction of all, the true sarcasm of life, knowing the sum of all light is in transit, the distances so vast the mind estimates nothingness in what may be considered ‘everything’ to come in our future.
In green I see the leaf as a faint thing, needing, as though my vision has granted it power beyond its purpose. In truth I know my ability to see only a representation of this object, or, its complementary echo as manufactured by my systems of sight, proves my embedded need for my world, my universe, as though I am only half, or no part of its whole, so long as the leaf is here to locate me as it does, gladly, though I know it requires nothing of me in its lifetime but to spoil me in my very real delusion of invaluability. And thankless I mutter stupid ideas in hope of occasional shots of humility.
I think you’re capable, Artist, you are. In fact, we all are, and I know that pains you. Your quest for mispresumed ‘perfection’ has left you lonesome and tired, ready to ‘give up’. What value could anyone get from your work, your attempts at fabricating a ‘genuine’ persona? Why am I forced to surround your every idea in quotations? What question should you have for something we all do at will, for pleasure? I just want you to know what you’re already afraid of, what you fear out of truth, that I’ve watched and made note, taken heed of what sense you’ve given me and I’ll tell you it took merely seconds.
You are closed off, narrow, banal. You are useless to everyone, quite likely in every aspect. You have passed judgment on persons following a purpose, a love, a passion. You are an Artist without interest. You are immoral by default. There is no place for which you haven’t outtalked your would be peers. There is no doubt in my mind with which to benefit you. You are not mean, and I love you. You are just plain stubborn and frankly I don’t get it. Or so I’ve seen you at times, Artist, refusing to participate in a whole universe of interaction so near love that our lives become heavens of brotherly question. So different from this family you choose to create a situation in which those who need you do not and cannot respect you, and it’s trite. It begs explanation, but now, I’ve spent all the time I’ve got, and I have other concerns to address.