All art is quite useless :: essays research papers

All cheat is quite uselessIf people were labeled with safe champion word to represent them, to sum up their many chapters of life, hotshot word to define them completely, then the label youd least fall across would be that of artist. Seldom does one come to this earth with the indwelling ability, the gift to see the introduction as a painting, freshly ideal on his canvas. The power to be forever praised on the walls of aging art museums. And the shear courage to go through life as an anomaly, a rare breed that makes heads turn the other way.It lead be one rough journey for the young artist, however. Life will throw him approximately in a complicated mixture of feelings, thoughts and emotions, as he will desperately seek to find out who he is and what his purpose in life is. As his mind keeps sinking in dark, depressive moments of contemplation, the world somewhat him will gradually affect him less, and his subconscious will start make the foundations of a brand new world , inside his head. A world where filaria melt chthonic the persistence of the moment, where the horizon bends under a quill and nature explodes into a force against which we are meaningless a world of beauty, color and contrast where poverty does not exist where pain, solitude, depression and agony have no meaning.Trying to copy this odd world into something humanly translatable, the artist will spend day and night, paint and paper, ink and blood trying to find a way to turn his lot into a reality. Speeding across the highways of creation, searching for a muse under every unturned stone, he will have most for certain picked up a few bad, mind altering addictive habits on the way. His body gradually deteriorates as he constantly stretches his senses to the limit, trying to educate to some promised, higher level of existence, a metaphysical metamorphose, but never leaving the cold ground. Hours blend with days and minutes turning succession into a vague, discontinuous notion t hat the artist disconsideres while lost in an unstoppable, mechanical trance, creating piece after piece of critics tear apart that nobody cares for.Then he turns to love. The one last vice he doesnt need. He seeks for it through poems, centerfolds and dimly lit streets, pursuing the odour of pheromones oozing from every corner of the sacrilegious part of a township soaked in moonlight.