Projection of Opinion

Here we reach an uncomfortable place in which we place on the wall a picture. Then the crowd leans in and begins to verbally rip and tear the image to shreads disregarding it's place. I found, my first year in art school, this to be the most barbaric of acts against the artist and the piece presented. The "wall" was but a peg board. The "critics" a bunch of students. The room, a simple concrete classroom, nothing more. I found this place empty of knowledge, void of depth and increasingly anti-art. I left the department, even with a professor hounding me across campus. It's only mid-term. You could pass this class. Did I really want to "pass"? I would have rather failed it. So I dropped it. I dropped the entire department and moved on. It wasn't working, I walked away. I met Jacey that year. I remembered Jacey because she had the same earrings and was incredibly talented. I never found out what happened to her but I wished her the best. She deserved it. Remember your feet when faced with critics. What do they really know? These so-called experts of the aesthetic. They go by formula. Art is not formulaic. If it is, it's not art. I would rather exist on the periphery of this thing we call art than suffer formula, acceptance by a conditioned crowd or passing a class. This is your life hanging on the wall. How do you judge it? How do you critique it? The lines and colors, the days and the experiences. The texture, the inspiration. No, I'd rather exist completely outside of art than deal with this. I sat across from Karenina, drawing her as she drew me. Her drawing was delicate and wonderful, mine looked a little flat. Karenina smiled. She took the picture and we swapped movies. Her Santa Sangre vs. my Nosferatu. I must say I enjoyed Santa Sangre as much as anything. I sat alone watching it and wishing it were yet another existence. I suddenly wanted to jump into that film or into her drawing. Another connection made, another memory added, yet another lovely venture into art and the making. I was cradled from beginning to end by the memories of sweet faces and working hands. This is th e way I wish to remember it. The impression. Bringing any critique from the land of the lost I will say that another artist recommended "one color". I choose them all.