Member-only story
The world outside my studio has fallen silent. The noise has fled, hiding behind whispers. The wind makes the leaves whisper. The moon barges behind a dark cloud. Let’s its light shine doubtfully over the city. I sit motionless in front of my easel.
Get up and get my medium-sized drawings folder from my storage. Slide the drawings out across the floor. Silently I look at them. Some I still recognize, their elaborations hanging with various buyers.
Drawings can neither speak nor doubt. They speak for themselves. I put my new drawings next to them. I look doubtfully at the differences. I see before me the time that has passed between the drawings. If they could speak of the struggle with which they were created, that would have immediately removed my doubt. With slow gestures I slide everything back into the folder.
Sometimes I doubt how art is practiced and lived through. Art is an experience of the inner self, unbiased without economic interests. Art is a human creation of one’s feelings, thoughts and ideas. Precipitated like condensation on a colder surface, a precipitation of what lives in this society.
Art should make people question the present and the future of this “civilization”. Is art a cross-section of our collective thoughts and feelings? Does it connect people or only separate them? That’s what was going through my mind today.
