The death of an artist
Art by tradition is artificial and hence applied. Artists have been excavating nature for too long that now it is nearly empty and almost without anything to offer anymore
Hisham M Nazer
Like science art too should have two branches-- applied and pure, and since such distinction can be conceived from a scientific ground, the proposition is well defended by which we all are so eager to accept, namely, science itself. But despite this almost infallible reason it is almost unacceptable because the word pure is the cause of all impure judgments and understanding. Who will not want to have the title of a pure artist (often because it sounds the right thing to be) even when inherently lies within him the spirit of an exhibitionist?
In most cases the wish to create and market is simultaneous; so are the joy of creation and the joy of a wishful anticipation indispensable. Even before the end of a work of art is anticipated, the future moment is always already therea moment that brings recognition; a moment when the messenger becomes more important than the message itself. That, in my opinion, brings about the death of an artist.
The artist in one dies, when his wish to become an artist, as a social recognition, is born. All his pursuits for perfection, guided by elaborate practices and technical methods, lead him eventually towards a spot where he can only be political about his art and nothing else. This political power is mastered not by a direct purpose, rather is obliquely designed by a strong wish (aided by a stronger creative passion) to create a trend and tradition by deconstructing the ones prevalent. With this acquired power of politics, he then extrapolates, defines, passes judgments on others works and thus flaunts, his talent for imitation, if not his genius, for he will not have any in the course of time.
Art by tradition is artificial and hence applied. Artists have been excavating nature for too long that now it is nearly empty and almost without anything to offer anymore. It is the time when we imitate a work which is an imitation itself, of the works that came before it. To not be a demonstrable or exhibitionable work of art is something no longer (or perhaps never) deemed artistic and anyone not creating anything visible is not an artist.
To say it innocuously, you must have a voice or vision, a different one, in order to be called an artistone who will publish, will go down into the pages of history and will be appreciated. To shrink it down to a crude nutshell: you have to be a narcissist- one who has the power to transform his identity into ideas printed on papers or carved on the stone. The reflection has changed; it is no longer of you, but is about you. Apparently theres no harm in doing that, for what great calamity can ones being a narcissist bring; what great disaster can his creativity, which can be beautiful(!) occasion? But the calamity and disaster in fact is threefold more severe than a war or a tornado. It disrupts the human becoming by putting so much emphasis on the becoming of the artist, who knows only what his profession allows him to know and in his pursuit polarizes the path to beauty and the direction of his thoughts as well.
In an artist like that, the craftsmanship becomes the only art left within himthe art of turning just about anything into art. The wish to deconstruct and be fashionable about it becomes obsession, which at moments deludes him into believing that whatever he creates is high art, and whoever goes at odds with his beliefs must not be a true artist. He yearns for a voice and advocates such yearning as an essential element to stand out of the crowd of commons. Eventually, this becomes his religion on which he puts unshakable faith. The more he transforms himself into an artist, the less human he becomes. And at last what we have is just a big disappointmenta man with the gift of envisioning greater beauty turning into a man of impure intentions. Thus the transparency of the human is invaded by the opacity of an artist, with whose birth dies the natural spirit that lies dormant in all of us. There starts the profession suitable for applied art, which is when it is what it should be, following a prescribed dictation of the stream (any stream, even the one that runs counter to the main one).
Pure art is for pure artists, who first before becoming artists are humble humans, guided by a passion felt inside unadulterated by theories and expectations of the art-society which is sitting there to condemn anyone to fame or failure. These pure artists may not create but is created themselves by the Supreme Artist that nature is.
Their being is a spirit of joy itself a poem written by love and recited by time. These artists do not strive to become but simply be, in the moment that is beautiful and has to offer different shades. Under this spell they create, but only to entertain the moment back, and partially to pour the joy outside for the simplest reason of sharing the joy that is enjoyed within. They are humble and that gives them the rightful title of Pure Artists (which is not there to be given to anyone actually), or simply Humans, with purity in their heart and a simple yet grand vision in their mind. They are hard to be found because they do not flaunt this unique quality they have. And probably theres no need to find them, because without anyones appreciation and seminars and awards, they are content and are deeply happy, to have the chance to feel the beauty and at moments re-create it solely and simply for a reason which has nothing to do with a title, or with anything beyond the magical euphoria that the process of creation gives.
The writer is Assistant Professor
Department of English
Varendra University
