My "High Society" Post

As I was brainstorming my next post, I became aware of a connection between art and writing, which lead me to realize that I was disappointed in myself as a writer. Allow me to explain:

When you look at a piece of art, it can be considered "good" for many reasons. In my mind, they can be boiled down to aesthetics, and meaning. ("Meaning" being a very, very broad term.) So when you look at a piece of art, you can enjoy it for it's visual appeal through means of color, lines, etc. But if it doesn't represent anything or send any sort of message, then is it really worth anything? In other words, what else does it have to offer except being "pretty". This is the same thing with writing. When I write things, I don't want them to just be flowery words about my daily life. That would be the same as painting a picture of a lamp shade. It could be a very pretty lampshade, but that's all it's good for. When you create something, you want it to be appealing, but also meaningful and intelligent.

When you look at artists like Picaso and Dali, (cliched examples, I know) they take that visual appeal and create a piece of art. You know what I mean when I say a "piece of art"? I mean they transcend those aesthetics to create art that impacts a society and changes the history of art forever.

Let's look at Picaso's Demoiselles D'Avignon. In his original sketches, you can see that he wanted to create a brothel scene with women surrounding some gentlemen. His original idea was to create this really controversial scene and include his audience in it. The two men are meant to represent all men. The sailor is a very dominant and boisterous man who is fully engaged and surrounded by prostitutes. The journalist is reserved and sensitive and acts as more of an observer. Not only can any man project himself into this picture if he wished, but the painting actively draws viewers in by making them sit at the table that is jutting directly into the painting.

This scene, however, has been done before, at least in bits and pieces. Brothels have been cropping up in paintings and sculptures since their creation, and one of the most typical characteristics of the entire baroque style is to engage its viewers in the art. This painting is thought provoking and nice to look at and that's that. However, Picaso takes this sketch, and enhances it to create the most ground-breaking work in the decade, at least!

This final product maintains the controversy that was established in the first sketch, while adding Iberian and and Ancient Tribal influences, while also disregarding space and dimensions almost completely. Because of this change, the painting single-handedly spearheaded the Primitivist/Cubist movement. It was in this transition that he took his mediocre and visually pleasing sketch, and created a "work of art".

The same thing can happen in writing. If you tell me a story about how you went to the store to buy groceries and ended up saving a puppy from a forest fire and radioactive space bears, that would be pretty rad, but it's not going to change the world. When I think about how I've been essentially treating my blog like a diary, that makes me sad. While my stories might make you laugh, they're not going to make you think about the world in a different way, or challenge you as a human being. But on the other hand, if I wrote posts like this all the time, I have a feeling no one would be interested in reading my blog after a while.

My point is, when I write, I don't want it to be just words. I want those words to become questions and answers and hilarious awesomeness and STUFF. That's why I feel guilty about just talking about myself all the time and telling you stories about my life. I'm not saying I'm going to stop, because it's freaking fun, but I am going to try harder to maintain some literary integrity with posts like these. This way, I can continue to challenge myself, and hopefully challenge my readers, which is what great artistes like myself strive to do.

What is Fear? Assignment from my Creative Writing Class in High School

It’s gaining on you.
You’re trying to run, but your feet are stuck in mud.
Shadows start to close in on you.
Running.
Running.
Can’t get away.
Everything is black and your heart is pounding.

Open your eyes.



Everything is quiet and dark. Adrenaline is coursing through your veins and your eyes bug wide in the darkness. The only sound is your ragged breathing, and the clock ticking on the wall above your head.
Your brain chugs slowly to life as familiar shapes start to fade into focus, and you realize after a few seconds, that you are in your bed.
The cool feeling of relief washes over you as you slump back against your pillows.
A smile breaks across your face, as you contemplate your near miss.
A few seconds go by, and your smile starts to fade because you’ve come to a stark realization:
it’s dark,
you’re scared,
and you’re completely
alone.

It’s black everywhere you look. Shapes are only visible in the periphery, and even then, they are hazy. What’s hiding in the dark corner, or behind that door, or in the closet?
Quickly, you glance over at the clock for reassurance.
3:12am
Great. Four more hours until the sun comes up, and you know you are safe.
You assure yourself that you’re being ridiculous, and lie down and close your eyes, but you have a harder time controlling your ears; they perk up despite your best efforts.
If the neighbors opened a soda next door, you would be able to hear it.
You try to ignore the involuntary shivers, and the burning knot at the pit of your stomach.
Relax your muscles,
let your mind wander.
Peace.
Soft sheets.
Dark blue.
Stars.
Star fish.
Goldfish.
Sea monsters!

Oh shut up!


You try again.
Peace.
Warm breezes.
The smell of leather.
Sand.
Puppies…



Just as you feel yourself drifting into unconsciousness, you hear the wood floor creek outside in the hall.

Your eyes fly open and your heart kicks into overdrive. Sitting ram rod straight in your bed, you focus all your senses on identifying the noise.
How the hell are you supposed to hear anything with that damned clock ticking in your ear?
You consider taking it down, but you decide against it. It alone is guiding you to the safety of the dawn; it’s purpose is too great.

You spare it a glance.
3:27
Ugh.


It’s quiet for a while.
Just as you start to consider lying back down, another thump echoes in the hallway.
Adrenaline shoots back through your veins and your heart pounds fervently against your ribs.
You imagine a shadow, taking its time, only stepping every few minutes so the sound of its footsteps are spaced far enough apart to remain inconspicuous in the night. It makes slow progress to your room so that when it gets there, you’re sleeping unaware in your bed, vulnerable, and unconscious.
Another footstep.
It feels like your heart is going to fly out of your chest, and your stomach is going drop through your butt.
Quick glance at the clock.
4:34
Come onnn.

Seconds turn into minutes, which turn into hours. Sweat dews on your forehead, and your back is killing you from sitting stone still for… how long have you been sitting there?
3:58
You don’t know, a while.

The wood creeks again.
Though you’re still braced for attack, you’ve become desensitized to the noise.
(You’ve had a lot of time to think and rationalize.)
So you let your mind wander; only leaving half of your brain to keep a lookout.

Apple cider.
Hay rides.
Bon fires.
Shooting stars.
Lots of stars.
Planets.
The sun.
Two suns.
Eight suns.
A million suns.
Too bright.

You open your eyes.


Sunlight is pouring through your window, directly into your face. It’s morning, and you’ve survived another night. Surprise, surprise.
You roll over to check the clock and you hear your shoulder crack.
 !!!

You supposed that’s what you get for sitting like a rock in your bed all night.
You laugh at how stupid you feel; everything seems so safe and far away in the delicious light of day.
Contemplating clichés, one in particular finally resonates with you:

There is nothing to fear, but fear itself.