Artistic Merit
What Is This? A rebellion; An instrument against artistic oppression or simply a manifesto of my truth. Tendencies to think inconsistency in creative work should be celebrated, not disregarded. Design does not necessarily need to ascribe to uniformity, neither does art or writing. Experiments are mind exercises are the essence of anything extraordinary, one should not stop at a thing that simply “works”. Individuals subscribe to equilibrium, symmetry, order, because it is comforting. But there is no progress in comfort, there are only limits. The soul is in constant pandemonium and thought is nonlinear. Chaos is the vitality of our planet, disregarding the implementation of possible patterns of function. Don’t regard art as an aesthetic. It is not a brand. It is the broadcasting of unpredictable emotions; An extension of feelings. Honestly, I think I’m just trying to break it, rather than make it. Kalina
AD
ABSURDUM
Morning in Blue The sun rays broke into the cell I was sleeping in and turned it’s contents into a room. The brightness gently caressed the curves of my face and brought me to consciousness. It was six o’clock in a inaudible morning— my dreams were a faint tint on the reality of everything around me. I got up. The tips of my toes touched the floor and a slight shiver traveled through my body, making its way towards my head before ultimately disseminating in externalism.
thority over. I ran to the other room and grabbed it. It was jiggling and clamping as the unexplained metaphysical pull yanked me outside. I thought it might break, fall apart, but there was no time to be careful. Not now.
When I found a spot, satisfying to perfection the unlikely juxtaposition of my tranquil mind and restless body, I planted it in the sand. The legs fit the bumpy surface, fundamentally eliminating the need for Slowly, I made my way toward much stabilization efforts. I hurried the window and opened it only to back. The golden sand created a be hit by the cool A.M. breeze. Like slight discomfort on the bottom of some kind of disembodied guest my feet as the sun had already heatit entered my space and I smelled ed up the grainy shore. I grabbed summer. The ocean was peaceful the glass jar from the veranda of my for the first time in a long time. It porch. The wind chimes swung back made a nice coincidental analogy to and forth in the wind, producing a the state of my mind. The beach was familiar lullaby. The brushes stuck deserted. I could see small waves out of their containment, I was eagoing back and forth, leaving mo- ger to hold them. Some of them mentous marks on the sand as they carried reminiscence of paint in beretreated to their home. tween their bristle. I was never good at cleaning them, nor did I have the ‘Today!’— I felt the thought more heart to throw the gravely damaged like an order than something, of ones out. They were extensions of whose content I had indefinite au- my fingers— part of who I was and
where I have been. They expressed my essence without fail.
feeling from the chemicals. I continued, brushing over my mistake. Everything was slowly drying and Before I began to lose myself I becoming one. Wherever the pen took another indulging glance at the touched, it left lines of blue that waves and their playful interaction slowly formed the trajectory of my with the shore. I was ready. I dipped hand. I imagined that my platform a rather thick brush in a container I was a spacious dimension, invaded had brought with me on the second by the dynamic blue time line. I was trip. It came out paled turquoise. the master of this continuum. It was uncanny how the stroke of my instrument could change its I had no perspective how long thickness and opacity at the will of I was on that beach, immersed in my wrist. I inhaled the fresh sea air, pure honesty of emotion. The colors determined to encapsulate and feel were overlapping, each demanding everything at once. I re-dipped the attention with different thickness, bristle in another container with- style and detail. Yet, everything was out whipping the memories of the somehow modest. I left it to dry in previous color. It came out zaffre. I the sun and slowly made my way watched it how it splashed and be- back to the house for breakfast. The haved on the white space; how the sand was no longer bothering me. white absorbed the blue and inter- ‘Beauty.’ — I thought and secretly nalized its identity. I realized I had wished all my days started out like imposed too much as it started to this. drip on the sand, forming puddles of color. I took the end corner of my gray-scale blouse and smudged it, somehow not only trying to soak up the excess, but also derive some
I follow
the inconsistencies
of my mind.
While perception of sound is
emotional states, transcribed within
emptiness
The black lines
of the white page;
are impersonations—
beautiful and cunning
instruments of my
“Feelings Of”
to you in a meta language?
pushing a distopian agenda.
simplified narratives,
cacophonies;
All expressions become
of everything. Beyond it
Until the end
this, the excess effort for comprehension . Did you really understand the flow or does it speak
Now read the columns simultaneously, following linear fashion. Think about the idea behind
Read each column in its entirety. Remember the confusing structure and learn to embrace it.
Edges
Morality; Permanencies in the temper of the mind; Temporality of emotions
are all subjects of poetic imitation.
S
he thought expectations are based on ignorance; the chance of fulfillment is directly proportionate to the chance of spotting a star in a polluted sky. She said that impossibility is a necessity, yet the conception is you can overcome your primal instincts; becoming a better person for the pleasure of another. She believed that the world was a hypothesis; a debatable universe, full of hypocrites, liars and substandard people, but bad habits have a cloak of invisibility. She screamed at walls at the end of the day, thinking they had ears, but interest was faded away now that her will was broken. She turns in her bed, hidden behind closed doors, where time subsists on her own consciousness. The rationality behind the modality fails to be indispensable. Contingency is the only answer that is deemed satisfactory; But in this whole quest of existentialism and social inquiries, a light illuminating light, she is coerced to a faulty conclusion.
Anthropomorphism
Lessons in Self-Expression Ride a bike and let the trajectory be your life line. Write about the energy, the characteristics, the details— disregard grammar, stability, symmetry. Call them your limitations. Entities with artistic merit require the possession of a certain degree of aesthetic quality, bestowed upon them by their situationally omnipotent creator, or contain a meta-conversation between expression and perception. This must be substantially distinguishable from ordinary objects and quotidian reality. They need to transcend beyond cultural and, for the purposes of philosophical discussion, universal boundaries, but should encompass some type of commentary, be that religious propaganda, emotional distress, social discrepancies, etc.
In one word: Conflict. Traditionally defining art within the realm of mimesis, expression and formality propels the medium in a pseudo reality. Everything conspicuously exceptional is exceptional in despite. It has transitioned into a state of nothing to a state of being through some type of perturbing process, a birth through defiance or romance. That is remarkable in itself. The line between mediocrity and genuine unconventionality runs thin. The informative situation of art, poetry and performance within this framework should be a focal point of recognition and a paragon of the achieved self-awareness of the creating and perceiving agents. It is a sensory overload.
Captivating narratives woven within the fabric of shallow representations. If you are not certain, engage in trail and error. Draw in your process books and keep them as memorabilia. Continue onto the surface of the table or the bench or the floor. Disobey the margins of the paper. When you don’t know, but feel, extend within your medium. Do not be afraid of the countless revisions and reconceptualization of thoughts.
Keep it hidden or show it. Run with it. Breath with it. Live with it. It is your energy, becoming tangible to everyone who is willing to see it, feel it, hear it. It all is gibberish and nonsense to a certain extent. ‘Being’ and ‘nothing’ are the same thing before their actualization. So in a sense, it is all relative . But it is important to our perception and survival as a species.
The effects forget the cause.
A list of things of things I feel like when I write about love: - An imposer - A self-proclaimed know-it-all - An overly-emotional asshole -More derivations and synonyms of the above Etc. Etc. Writing about love is a stab in the dark, while you hope to God you just didn’t stab yourself. Our mind can be in such devious states of deception due to illusory nature of the feeling. What the hell is it anyway? Does anybody know? - Means of manipulation - A defense mechanism against loneliness - Instinct-driven promiscuity - A simple evaluation of degrees of likability and likeness - An unquantifiable feeling (as in words, but somehow justifiable by action) - An obsession with Jane Austen novel The analogies can be endless, but I have no interest in them. Love should manifest in different forms and vary in it’s intensity. It is also inherently temporal. Complexity comes from the humans interpreting it and feeling it. Yet, it is present in poetry, meaningful looks, every
Write your own poem about love or anything else that is intangible:
I Don’t Know
This is an overly romantic representation. Some might call it “romantic fiction�. Even so, it is important to recognize feelings as they are, not how someone else tells you how they should be.