|I Write What I See (standard:other, 872 words)|
|Author: E J Woodall||Added: Jun 05 2002||Views/Reads: 1768/1||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|For my final project for my Journalism degree, I had to construct a portfolio of articles and get them published. The majority of my articles are related to art exhibitions, and I have written reviews on them. This 'story' is philisophical.|
I wake up this morning in a cold bed with a head full of burning frames, encrusted with molten acrylic and black thick smoke that's waving at me, tempting me to come and see. See this articulation of burnt timber, polished engravings that have sunk into the aged grain. Encapsulated is the swirl of blue and green watercolours, which in its true form was a simple painting of the sea. A mass of transparent colours that holds no bearing on anyone's life, apart from the painter himself. And what bearing! He, who has bought a brush, bought some paint and acquired specialised paper, and formatted the plain sheets into a lifelike depiction of a large quantity of water, which of course, in its natural form is the true environment. But why transmit this? My dreams function as ubiquitous essence of my words that I put onto paper, or in this case, I type each individual character in an efficient way on this computer. Now I hear screeching birds, quite a difference from the previous night. Still partially asleep and now there are thin stemmed wine glasses, half full, half empty, with bubbling champagne, sweet to the taste, gurgling in the throat. I take that glass and hold it uneasily, sipping every few moments to pass the time in between inane and mundane chitchat. AS everyone and I sip and chat, sip and chat, I gaze at the walls. They talk, yet they are transparent. They exhibit, they are intrinsic, and they are the subjects of the commanding gaze, for what they carry only. For I am now standing in pink dress with ribbons tied around my waist and in my hair, blue ones. And I am clutching a notebook in one hand, with a camera hanging off my strained neck and a strategically placed pen is hiding in my fist, only its essential nib is revealed. Surrounding me are various human faces each with the same blank expression painted on their faces, like dolls that have realised the true extent of their life in a doll's house. Negative. Switch over to the talking person, who, trancelike, is apparently Discussing the construction parallel to me. There is a light bulb, bare, naked and vacant from life. Directly below it is a white chair, exposed to the brilliant light, there is no one sat in the chair. A book lies open on page 198, having been read then left, like an unwanted Christmas present. The disused smatterings of knowledge that have been forgotten. This construction is boring, it bores me, it bores my bones. But what should it do? Is there a function to this installation, and if so, what is it? If it is not functional, is it necessary? Why do we insist on functional items? I suppose otherwise they are very much like mantelpiece junk, an empty item, and an encumbrance. This is what I write about. I visit, I opinonate, I think, I rarely discuss, I write. The process can be laborious, but it can also be a quick progression. Ultimately though, it is a function of my work, it has a function, unlike what I see, sometimes. It is 2:08 in the morning and I am still awake, why I don't know. Why the vulgar seagulls are awake, I still don't know. They stay up all night for all I know, who knows what they know and why they are still awake. They obviously do not sleep. All I can expect from this is the fact that I will be read by someone, perhaps even two or three people. They haven't seen what I have seen, yet will they accept it as truth? That is the power of the Written Word. Seeing is believing, but I have seen a lot of crap tonight. For this evening I went to a Private View. Exclusive invitation. Stairs towards pictures, images, cigarettes, paintings, wine, graffiti, irreverent talk, instruments, illusions, nuts and more nuts. Finger food to accompany finger painting. The comfort of safe painting has no place here, no vases, no cats, dogs or horses. No landscapes, no pretty cottages and no recognisable portraits of elite society. What I see here is an expression of something elusive, something that only the artists know. Knowledge is power, so power to the artist! What I see is conceptual, against the regime of traditional art. But as I View Privately, I see a shop window with goods displayed to the prospective buyer. Intrinsically, that is what it is. I am window-shopping. But I have not seen anything I want to purchase. Conceptual art? I think I am missing out on something. The concept is to sell, is that the function? I hear cries from many artists, but I don't care, I am the writer, I embody the gaze. If nothing sells this evening, will it have been all for nothing? I leave. Café has dispersed of its Private guests and tomorrow morning it will open to all, the public and the general. Next week, we will see, possibly even read some words on this evenings events. Form your own opinion, I dare you. How many sheep am I counting? Or is that lemmings I am encountering... Tweet
Authors appreciate feedback!
Please vote, and write to the authors to tell them what you liked or didn't like about the story!
E J Woodall has 4 active stories on this site.
Profile for E J Woodall, incl. all stories
For a quick, anonymous response to the author of this story, type
a message below. It will be sent to the author by email.