2004-07-28

"Art is a lie which makes us realize the truth"

�Art isn�t what it used to be...and these days, any broken heart will get someone a place in an art gallery. The same goes for writing, I suppose...the writers who capitalize on their agony will always get their five minutes of fame.�

Fel�pe gently stirred his coffee as he spoke in his usual, sharp manner. He�s going to begin his usual denunciation of classmates--I can see it in his eyes, he has the potential to be a great satirist. I had not seen him since he left for Barcelona about a year ago, as a young art student eager to perfect his craft. But today, I once more found myself sitting down with my cousin, as he outlined his annoyances.

�You say these things so bitterly, almost as if you have lived through all of life; as if you knew all the virtues that make an artist�, I respond, as I stare into his clear, brown eyes.

�In my twenty-one years, I will not pretend that I know everything there is to know about my craft; I won�t pretend to be another Picasso or Pollock, but I do know what art isn�t. And it isn�t about being a suicidal maniac, or a self-destructive, self-depreciating fiend.�

I stare at him, and begin to lightly tap my white cappuccino mug. My gaze leaves his for one instant as I look down at the caramel-coloured froth.

�You seem disturbed by what I have said, but you won�t truly know what it is that I am referring to until you become a painter, and until you have been disillusioned many times with the love of your life.�

�Enlighten me,� I say, almost challenging him--he�s always been very quick to respond to my challenges.

He grins for a minute, and lightly places his index finger on his lips, before continuing:

�Alright. Everyone�s a painter these days...or at least they pretend to be�

�Everyone�s a writer,� I respond

�Let me finish. People are becoming whores, capitalizing on their pain. You have these broken-hearted idiots who are under the false belief that their so-called agony, which in their eyes, always supersedes that of others�, somehow validates them as artists.�

�Like Pollock?� I ask

He scoffs at me now, as he suddenly glares at me. �There was only one Pollock, and he wasn�t the type of prostitute to capitalize on and gain attention from his misery.�

I can tell immediately that he�s greatly insulted by my comment on Pollock, which I confess was intentional, in order to get a rise out of him. He gently pushes his coffee cup away. �The same goes for those writers.� He says, before continuing, �Let me put this in terms that you will better understand, and I�ll give an example that you are perhaps more familiar with.�

�Alright,� I say slowly, not knowing what to expect from this horribly cynical cousin of mine.

�Broken-hearted writers--I have read them all. Spare me of their sob stories--the loneliness, the depression, the desolation and desperation. They are all so alike with their stories of self-hate, self-destruction, and their incessant bitterness for the rest of the world, that it almost makes me cry with laughter. They all feel unloved; unwanted, and while pain is universal and no man can run from it, there are those clever few who believe that they can suckle their rewards from it while it still thrashes fresh in their hearts. They behave as if they were the only ones who have ever experienced a broken heart, or true agony...and somehow, they think their misery sets them apart from humanity, granting them a sense of uniqueness, when it doesn�t. In the end, they accumulate and become the Edith Whartons of society.�

He�s now becoming more passionate as he speaks, and I can hear this in his voice. He continues whilst I sit quietly:

�And since when did pain suddenly become a euphemism for creativity, or talent? And so, all of them scramble for attention with their sob stories, attempting to be distinguished from others who are just like them; and to a certain extent, they hunger for attention and immortality through their scribblings. They try to mimic true tormented and rebellious souls like Kierkegaard or Poe, yet, they are nothing...simply, they are pitiful creatures who complain about the trivial affairs of the heart.�

�And that�s what you think of today�s painters and writers?� I ask

�Precisely,� He responds, �They�re all pretty much alike, and they soak in attention by using their pain as the main tool.�

�I believe that you are being insensitive, haven�t you ever felt that way?� I ask, almost indignant.

�Of course, but if I must suffer, I will do so quietly. And if I must sob gently, then I will do it in the shadows. I don�t incorporate my pain into my artwork. Like any feeling, pain is fleeting.�

�Then you are telling me, that when a relationship has left you shattered, or when you become frigid and empty, you will not seek to express it through your artwork?�

�I will admit that I have done this, but those paintings stay with me and never see the light of day. The workings of my heart and my soul are not storybooks for the world to read. Artists, like writers, should not wholly incorporate themselves into their work. Of course, each book, like each painting, contains parts of ourselves to some extent; but we should only put half of ourselves into it. The rest, give your audience something that they can mould into their own.�

�You�re quite young,� I say

�So are you,� he responds, �Younger, even...what is it now, eighteen? Nineteen?�

I make an uncomfortable face--always despising it when people bring up my age.

He chuckles softly as he runs his hand through his raven-black hair. He looks at me teasingly, �Do you still have your little online diary?�

I freeze. My mouth gapes open, and my eyes widen in horror and embarrassment. I knew that I had mentioned this to him before--in one of my e-mails--yet, I failed to remember that the bastard had such an impeccable memory--photographic, even. His chuckle now turns into a laugh, and I see his perfectly sculpted white teeth through his contagious and youthful smile.

�You thought I had forgotten, didn�t you?� He�s now pouting, and making a mocking expression with his face.

�No...�

�Those quaint little writings of yours that I have read--quite good, but they lack the emotion. However, you�re oftentimes too clever, and I get the impression that you are talking about something other than nature.�

�Perhaps,� I say coyly.

�Maybe I should stop by your little online diary. Who knows, maybe I�ll read the ramblings of other emotionally-needy human beings--it would make for a great conversational topic. In fact, maybe one of them will fit my description of an attention-craving fool, who, by marketing his or her pain, tries to gleam the spotlight towards their overly-emotional psycho-babble...as if broken hearts were to give their writing legitimacy. They can join the ranks of thousands of other disoriented and depressed fools--they�re no rarity. However, show me an optimist, someone who knows how to take in the good and bad--both in an equally philosophical manner--and I�ll deem that person a true rarity.�

�Tell me, then, what do you have to say about my own quaint little vignettes?�

�Ahh...� He begins, �You�re young, and you still need to learn. And no, you�re not Thoreau or Whitman, but you will get better. And I don�t respect you less because your talent is still growing; but the day that you exploit your pain, is the day that I stop speaking to you...the same goes if you start faking an appreciation for art. Do you truly like the Transcendentalists and the Impressionists? You�re not putting up a show? Do you mean the things you tell me about Pissarro? Does the Gu�rnica really make your heart pound wildly?�

�Yes...I�m not faking this!� I laugh, �I really do feel these things!�

�Good.� He nods, and makes the patronizing gesture of patting me on the head--his usual custom.

We continued our conversation in that caf�, and I find that each time--like some fine wine--he gets better.

Ahh...Fel�pe. Cu�date, hombr�...and let me clarify something about him (godmoney/Vin). My cousin is indeed overly-critical and a snob of the worst caliber. He does not aim to paint the Gu�rnica, and neither does he aim to mimic Pollock.

However, he does posses a passionate hate for overly-sensitive people (such as myself, even though he doesn't know my true nature)and thoroughly enjoys spewing out fiery rhetoric against them--and yes, the lad has got a very sharp tongue...but I don't choose my family members.

aeka at 7:09 p.m.