my theory of art and other collectanae

what follows is a transcription of notes i wrote in my pocket notebook (everyone should have one; along with a good pen, completely indispensable) today, starting during my less-than-amusing art history class (only for the month of january; not my choice), and continued on my bus ride home. it is some of the best thoughts i have had regarding aesthetics. (i plan on writing my thesis next year on aesthetic ethics, but as yet lack formal training in aesthetics.)

it is completely unorganized and unpolished, but it is good.

on a semi-related note, i'm looking into starting a publication or blog, very likely through Pomona, if it requires money, with snippets of ideas (visual, textual, or possibly audio or video) donated by people, for artists (a term i take to include not only painters and sculptors, but also photographers, writers, musicians, cinematographers (vaguely; there is beauty in movies), and any other creator of beauty through whatever medium) to use as inspiration or further develop. if you're interested (even if you're not in claremont), please let me know. my tentative name is pomarium.

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I like art. I hate criticism of art, and therefore art history. The theory of art is good and interesting–dynamics of color, texture, shape, light, movement, etc.–and to some extent the history behind a work of art can be useful, but for any great work of art, it is useless. The greatness and beauty of any work of art is not dependent on an individual's interpretations or thoughts or history, but comes instead from an ordinary person's reaction, independent of conditioning. [Beauty is how art lets us discover our own souls.] It is not something that must be deciphered. Deciphering art is the glose* of which Montaigne so disdainfully speaks. This definition of art is in no way limited to painting or visual arts, but extends facilely to music, literature, design, movies, etc.
Art theory is good because it helps create beautiful art. Art analysis is trash, because it tries to claim that the theory itself is what is beautiful, not what allows the beauty to be created or displayed. Down with glose, viva beauty.
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Beauty that is not self-evident, but which only becomes clear through use is design. Frank Lloyd Wright's form and function, architecture, engineering.
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Symbolism not self-evident is shit.
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Kierkegaard's imaginary beauty** is inferior to its real equal. (Why? Permanence?) These fantasies are the beautiful ideas that when realized become art. Unfortunately, Kierkegaard, like most of us, lacked the artists ability of realization.
Perhaps this "realization" is more "permanization". If Kierkegaard had written (very well) his fantasies in a book, how would that compare to his actually experiencing the fantasy (note: not what he actually did experience)? Perhaps permanization is what allows us to share fantasies with others. True realization can never be shared, and though superior, is alas, impermanent and transitory.
This is the point of living a beautiful (i.e. realized) life.
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Fantasy, Permanence, Reality: a trinamic (or maybe just double dynamic, but it could still be either a-b, b-c; or a-b, a-c, b-c) yet to be fully explored.
Why is reality really preferable? Is it that it allows us to enter more deeply into the beauty of something? I know it is better, even if transitory, but I don't fully know why.
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Am I here assuming a theory of the beautiful?
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and thank you to the beautiful girl facing the other way on the bus. I, unlike Kierkegaard, would have rather seen your face, but at least you did inspire some productive thought.***

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* My neologism from Montaigne's gloser, the French verb "to gloss", technically, but in this context it really does not translate well.
** Referring to a woman, his fiancé, I believe, of whom he discovered he would rather imagine and write letters to than interact with directly.
*** Namely, this second part.

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and for the heck of it, some other collectanae from my pocket notebook. this next part is truly weird, i know, but still interesting.

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I sit at a table in the Smith Campus Center courtyard, reading Nietzsche (Twilight of the Idols).
Drinking a bottle of Perrier I got from the Coop store, not because I wanted to look uppity (the courtyard was crowded), not wholly anyway, but because I had a canker sore, and my stomach was uneasy, and it was hot, and I was thirsty.
Finishing the bottle, I sit, reading Nietzsche, stressed out over my late paper, but enjoying the perfect day and taking in the sun and the noise of the people around me as I sit on my surprisingly comfortable wood slatted chair, one leg up on another one.
I perspire lightly in the heat.
I feel an impulse to throw the Perrier bottle high into the air, to let it crash down onto the concrete of the plaza.
People would stare. They would jump. They would not comprehend. Perhaps someone would get hit by a piece of the glass.
Does it matter? If they stare? If someone gets cut? If someone has to clean it up?
Ultimately, this action as irrational loses all its value if the impulse is not obeyed, but instead considered, or worse talked about (as I proceeded to do), or written about (as I am doing here).*
The value is the irrationality. The beauty of the green glass flying up, hovering, crashing and fragmenting in a beautiful explosion. The value is purely aesthetic. When we talk, or write, we inherently defile this irrationality, because our language and thoughts are so inherently rational.
In the end, I did not throw the bottle. I think I will always regret that, regardless of the social impropriety.
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* Thus why I never previously attempted to publish this (in addition to it making me look mildly insane...w/e).


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Every word you speak,
every word you write,
about my art
defaces my art.

...or something like that, except less shitty sounding.

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the possibility of post-logical systems

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also, i hate the sound of "pocket notebook". if you have a better term for it (or a name for mine in particular), please post it as a comment.