artartart

Upon running the calculations through the machine, matching numbers under tracing paper, and employing both Russian and German scientists
I have determined how much longer there is to this day
the answer is:

I have 20 minutes

20 minutes in which I will tell you that my impressions of art courtesy of three community college classes and an optimistic tuition rate = a rant that could go on for approximately 40 minutes. 20 minutes too long.

Scratch it then.

Let me sum it up. If art merely means ripped colored paper pasted onto cloth and decorated with idiom emotions and weird hair or perhaps handmade skirts then I want no part of it.

Perhaps I am old fashioned or elitist or rich or (sneer) bourgeois, but there is a difference between your art and your hobby. Just because it's artistic doesn't mean the whole process is one jolly lolly llama leap through the silk strand world where only good music plays all day (every day) and beautiful people with sparkly souls give you art supplies in exchange for babies. The artistic process, as far as I can tell, is a lot of work. Labor, even. Like with child or like with business.

I don't call myself a musician even though I play piano and guitar almost every day and have done so for the last 10 years. That would be absurd. It brings me joy and peace and fulfillment, but it's not the same. I'm not dedicated in the right way...my soul is not oriented in that position. Also I'm not good enough. And I'm not good enough for a reason. Mostly it's because I'm not a musician.

If I'm a musician, I'm sorry for music. And if the girl with her doily poncho in all the lurid colors of the psychedelic rainbow is an artist, I despair of culture.

All day I heard: THINK ABSTRACTLY! Just feel it. Show me what it means to you. Etc. As if the mere expressing of my feelings using art tools was an artistic act.

I will have to think about this some more.

My 20 minutes are almost up and I still need to brush my teeth.

Goodnight.