That’s how I felt for a second. And then it went away. There was this artist who’s name I don’t remember, who kept painting eye injuries. In the end he lost an eye in a pub brawl.
Let’s say, you are an artist. And you keep painting your nightmares. Would you be afraid that they came true? If you were, and you wanted a better life for yourself, believing into realisation of visualisation you start painting lovey-dovey pictures of how you want you life to be: nice house, happy family, holidaying around the cutest destinations over the world… Picture it? Nice? How does this sort of art make you feel? Or am I wrong?
The art is revealing. It says the truth about the inside of its creator. I know someone, who keeps creating pictures (I can’t say “painting” or “drawing” or “printing”, as it is none and all of those) depicting the void. There is nothingness there. And I can see how that corresponds with the author. What I can’t see is what MY art says about ME. I want to see, but I don’t. Maybe because it says nothing about me, but simply depicts the things in front of me?.. Or is it saying that there is nothing special about me to the degree that I hardly exist, have nothing to say?.. Or am I not using my art to express myself? Well… I know I don’t. And those few things in which I expressed myself I keep for myself.