This text is totally inappropriate in its lack of answers. It is not education in the sense you might know it.
I am totally inappropriate when I call out magic for the sake of art and beg you not to dive into art, unless you are prepared to be swept away, and to be torn inside out and to realise you might never surface again. I am not interested in your vague attempts at art – unprepared, shown to an audience, consisting of artists, lovers of art, art-lovers, art-suckers, mingle-bastards. This text will get me nowhere and I will keep writing it with the knowledge of being discarded as bitter and whatever typical things that might pop into your head which, just like your body-language, I so often observe, in the awkward pose which I take, which also is no news. No news from nowhere and I have one thousand and no answers to my boredom of this rotten city of well-born babies, even loved when they have no heads. I know this is the best city, but anyways: I am suffocating.
You show up, I show up, everybody shows up, to opening after opening and I am starting to feel sick. Seeking solitude, as to not experience goodbyes. One never sees art at openings – well, we try to and I see you; your hands, your legs, your heads. Moving in and out of masses, never completely together, never really present. Artists are the scum of the earth, the filth of society – do not take this away from us; these openings are our moment of shine and free drinks and sometimes we even get our evening supper. I have said nothing new and I intend not to. Free us from emotions and let us give into the magic of something unexplainable. There is something more to art than humour, critics, aesthetics, something, which not even religion, can explain. I swell from the inside out, eating the guts of my memory – the memory of all pain experienced through the ages, which not even Scientology can comprehend. I have ages of understanding for you to see, and I observe your awkward attempts at meaning, love and not to mention life and everyone else’s lifestyle. As one, my letters of love saw something in something – in something that I suddenly regret seeing.
I can never participate in the meanings of what you call “your way of understanding” and I do not want to. I choose to slowly prepare a goodbye, to welcome the calm life, which I always longed for. I am the now of nothingness, the ages before comprehension. He sees the library, which I am; ”but am I allowed to enter it?” I am a mere recognition of everything you always wished for, a steady ground before take-off.
Yet all I am assigned to is a body. Art can take a lover, but it can never take a love.
I slip into the fields of gold once more. A codex of: A few Breaths, Then Running Back. Love makes dull, I beg for forgiveness as I do when praying late at night, waiting for the punishment, which I deserve.
Sometimes art forgives you with the kind of attitude that makes you think of disappointed mothers – you are as alone as the rest of humanity. Getting up in the morning for something, which no one told you to do, for something that at least five fingers will discard as sad ideas – just like small plastic cups in a three-room-gallery space where hardly anyone makes a good impression. The swiftly stroke of an arm gets your attention, and someone nod, with the same frustration as when winds change, as when lovers are left alive for the next to come dig into them. Living with love in a harsh time of nothingness, makes you question everything – and not to mention: society questions you.
”Choose yourself, we live the life we choose to”. Try explaining art, the sense of nothingness. Try explaining those little gaps in the definitions of art – that one little gap which sums up everything, yet no one was allowed to find.
I am only an observer and I do regret my 13th year. The year that led me to never experience my 17th year, yet lead me through the scorned fields of anxiety, into a bright neon-lit boulevard of dull emotions and new ideas.
I will never leave, and I wish Haddaway had made a song about art. Over.