|feeling stupid and sentimental
||[Sep. 5th, 2007|08:40 pm]
I think the truth of someone is revealed in what they create, and sometimes I think that that understanding, between artist and observer is the only kind available to us in a world of different worlds and subjectivity and walls of self.|
That's why I care so much about what I create, why it invariably falls short of my hopes, so far at least.
I want to be worth understanding, and if there's anything true or beautiful in me, left there by accident maybe, I want to rip it out and concentrate it down into paint and words and hold it out to the world as a present.
This is why if anyone ever asked me I'd tell them that I loved my favorite writers like brothers, or friends, or lovers if I had ever had any. The people I've come closest to understanding, generations away. The people who understood me, although we've never met and gave it to me as a present wrapped up in their own genius.
Urgh, this is why I shouldn't let myself talk. I'm such a cliche.