Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Monet on Wall Street.



"... And that's the formula for success."
Success. Ha-ha. Like you'd know.

There's only so long a financial economist will handle the abstract wanderings of a tortured artist. An artist, who would ask whether the sun would rise and set the same way over the City as it did beyond it. An artist who would want a date that involved dinghy cafes and long walks and portraits, and then want for them to be not called dates. An artist who had overestimated the net present value of his art,created a bubble and then chose to isolate himself from the world and live in it, and yet somehow managed to find a buyer who trudged through his irrational exuberance.

Artists, they saw faces within faces and people in them. Sometimes the moon became a temple which became the surrender in a passion-filled iris, or pupil was it called? Sometimes the scratch of nails upon acrylics, sometimes the slide of a tongue over it, sometimes drawing with white upon white and creating layers upon layers for generations of addicts to uncover and dream about in their transcendent experiences. Only they could want more than someone who made the lows infrequent and less intense. They wanted more. They wanted something brilliant, and outrageous, and ultimately, some greater love which wasn't mediocre like all else in life so that when their eyes collided with a stranger on the train back home, there was always a story, the hopes of a story, the thirst, the rain-dance, the promise of surrender, always the departure in a stampede of three hundred feet, the loss and always, always the frustration. It was what kept them going, kept their fantasies living as breathing ghosts in the midst of men and made them so much more real than all of them.

But there were rules, and the sheer disregard of an artist for them confound and exhaust the profit-maximizing mind. You never tell an artist you don't want to kiss them, and when you do, they design a pattern like market volatility and when you don't, they get their paint all over your mouth.

You don't fight with an artist either, because they don't know reason and without it, there's no debate but only argument. You can love them though, but as all sane men come to discover, that doesn't involve much reason.

6 comments:

  1. you keep topping your own work.....I wish i could write your work ...all of it on paper and keep with me as my prized possession.... probably use one of ur lines on my tombstone.... i dont know anymore ways to pay tribute to the excellence of your work.

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  2. 'They wanted more. They wanted something brilliant, and outrageous, and ultimately, some greater love which wasn't mediocre like all else in life so that when their eyes collided with a stranger on the train back home, there was always a story, the hopes of a story, the thirst, the rain-dance, the promise of surrender, always the departure in a stampede of three hundred feet, the loss and always, always the frustration'

    You have a way...that's for certain. How truly have you put it.

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  3. The part Shankar quoted.
    Spectacular, as usual :)

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  4. Absolutely stunning. This is gorgeous in it's imagery and thought and it just makes us artists feel like these brilliant, other-worldly creatures altogether. (:

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  5. For a moment I. Thought this post was about the Occupy Wall street movement. Ha. Because I was there a week ago

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  6. The pictures you paint with your words. Amazing imagery. :)

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