It’s personal to its maker. It comes from the heart, somewhere deep down. It struggles when commercialized.
I am catching up with these daily January jots while I have working Internet for uploading. Not exactly conducive to the making.
There are some things hanging on my walls, but I cannot see them and must reach up or climb up to remind myself that they hang there. I hear about art I’d like to own, but I don’t. I often wonder if I would have become an artist, visual artist, as I used to want to be when I was a child. If I hadn’t lost more vision, I will always wonder.
Some news stories surface about a blind artist, but it’s not as easy as that. I love that sentiment, that we are told as children, that we can be whatever we wish. Love it, but I don’t know how truthful we’re being when we say it.
Yes, I know there’s always sculpture.
I can jot or let stream of consciousness run wild here, but will it be art? Can I express myself well enough, trust myself not to ramble on too too much?
Art makes me think all that stifling I sometimes feel can be washed away. There’s just too much going on, things I can’t control, can’t see the outcome of any of it. Art makes me feel like that’s not so important, whatever kind of art that might be.