If the current age of art was to wear a badge it would be that of realism. So much so that I think we might actuallycreate a badge. The beauty of our art is in how real our animation looks - computer graphics - how real our music sounds - adlibs, natural soundbites. But in this realism are we losing touch with the very purpose of Art? Is our striving for realism fueled not by progress but with our suffering through pride and shame?
Do we admire the amazingly true-to-form graphics and endure dauntint images from depressing voyeurism because it makes us feel proud? Proud that we live in an age of such technological advancement that we could animate a real person? Proud that we live in an age where our documentaries strip away the mystery of the past and present, leaving no rock unturned nor polished? Has pride become the sin of art? Rather than making the effort to make gods of men and angels of women, now we put words only towards their dark humanities and animate only their every wrinkle? Is this what we wish for our art, a world created in our own image rather than His?
Realism has its beauty as well above the skill it takes to produce a great work of realism: Each image rendering, each investigative report, is sort of a celebration of the world as we perceive it. But for myself I wonder if I prefer to investige things as they are as much as I wish to investigate things as they could be. A philosopher disposition as opposed to a scientist, a writer disposition as opposed to an author. There is a certain skill in being able to put into words our many motions of abstract thought and even more skill in being abke to reconjure an image - building a bridge between your eye and your mind's eye with letters and punctuation. But I would wish to use my own beams and cables to build a bridge forward, not backward, and rather suspend man into the world.not yet seen than the world already lived.
Off into the distance from my gorgeous hotel room balcony here in Arenal there is a massive active Volcano. A creation of the earth of such magnitude fury and legend, it would be worth at least a thousand of my words if I cared to write about the past. Instead, a hummingbird paid me a visit, flapping through the foliage with his own fury, searching for his beloved nectar. As my eyes pass from left to right following him across my body I begin to ask: What is it that a hummingbird thinks? Does he have any time to? Does his mind move as rapidly as his fantastic wings? If so, could it be that this simple creature in his own way lives through hundreds of moments in a single hour; thousands of experiences in the time that most of us work slavishly towards one? Perhaps in his constant movement from idea to action to idea back to action, this hummingbird outlives us all. Perhaps the easiest way to eternity is through a life of hard work.
If I could tell you anything about my vacation it would have been this, in hopes that it moves you forward as well.
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