Longing spreads like wild fire in the mind of a repressed artist. Living a life were responsibility takes precedence over contemplation and creation, they seek stimulation and connections to drive their creations. There is a difference between the curator and the creator and those whom have repressed their desire to create.
The curator, the self proclaimed expert, trained to actualize the good from the bad, the poorly executed from the honed skill. The creator, whom practices daily, makes it their responsibility, their livelihood. The repressed whom only create when there are no curators and no responsibility seeking their attention. The repressed may never practice for years but when applied to create, may make such masterpieces of emotion and passion that the skilled artist may attempt for years to attain and the curator may never realize the difference.
It’s that the repressed artist, self judged, that practices their craft in the minds eye. Ever seeking knowledge, experiences, joy and hardship to sharpen the ability to make connections from all that is around them. The repressed are those whom loose themselves in a song, take pen to paper and scribble a thought or doodle that no other may see, or set the stage of a deep philosophical conversation. The lack and need of an audience, which is the doing and un doing of the repressed. Fear of failure of imperfection. The tingle of pride after success. The repressed is the curator and the creator in one neatly created and engineered contraption. Like cardboard box strung with rubber bands in its interior holding and teasing the object within.
For whom do we create… for whom do we contemplate… for what is art in any form? what value does it really have to the creator or audience? Silly humanity..
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