How can artists keep creating art, over and over? I mean, its always the same thing, the same process. The person sits down, or they are standing, or however they prefer, and they create what they will. But it is the same, time after time. There is no difference, there is no essential quality that comes to them that is different from the time before. Each time it is them, just them, themselves. They are with themselves, alone. They find what they will and they move on.
It is just money that makes artists what they are? I do not think so. Is it the appreciation for their work that makes artists what they are? I think not. Then what is it then, what is it that can keep compelling someone to do the same thing, so many times, and for so long? I ask myself this question while I myself answer it, for, truly, I have been doing just that, writing over and over and for what feels like a lifetime already. These words spring out of my being but the spring itself feels dried up, the stream is nothing what it used to be, or perhaps it is greater, I don’t know.
And that is exactly what I am talking about. An artist has no idea how her/his own art will be perceived until after the thing is completed, but, during that process, that process unto which they are creating their art, don’t they themselves get bored, don’t they get scared that nobody will care? For it should be said that it is easier to quit then to finish what one starts, and, that, to even start something takes courage. Thus, for the artist, and I do consider myself an artist, that for the many works that I have not completed, and, that, before this work, this blog site, that I myself have written things but really never completed anything substantial, that, until now I myself have never given myself the chance to be perceived, as with respect to my work being perceived by others.
But I have been trying. I feel that the faith must come from the project itself. That it is the thing itself, the art itself that should push one to henceforth take it and hurl it at the world. It is the finished project itself, that, and if one did it right, that they shall feel that it demonstrates to them something that they feel is inside them, something that represents who they are. Thus for me, I have been waiting, I have been working and working, making and remaking, and, well, here I am.
Here we are, you and me. I am writing this and you perhaps are witnessing it. But, as for this, that, I myself could not write anything of any great length, for, me myself I cannot stomach the editing process for I feel that I wish to take each word and critique it again, I feel that I have new ideas and new things that I have learnt since the completion of the thing, and that I wish to add those, and it just so happens that such a editing of one’s own work is the perfect time to do something like that.
The problem is though, that, once I started to change the thing, once I started to edit and to rework the words, that I could not determine if I was remaking the words or if I was reworking the idea itself. For, one cannot know whither the idea that they had once is the same idea that they have now, and while art may serve as the best representation of that idea, as for the idea itself, that one must just exclaim that it is forever lost, that it was there with the human being during the creation process, but, now that creation aspect part of the process is over, that they now themselves have new ideas, new things on their mind and that that previous idea, while it still persists as that art, that as for the origin of that art, it is as lost as light into a black hole.
As for any editing then that there would seem to be one that would have to guess at the idea itself that perpetuated the thing, as for the idea that belonged to the art itself, and, if the artist is of any worth then it seems then that they would only make minute changes, for, as for the art that if it ceases to feel that it is a decent representation of what the artist had in mind, as to the idea and to a demonstration of the thing, that the artist itself would feel bored, or, that it would feel that it is itself in the presence of nothing special, of nothing that itself seems to resemble something in itself, something that is a demonstration of its own inner being.
