Aphorisms of Aesthetic Power*

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*I say, power rather than energy, because it is what it does, not what it is.

Aesthetic power is not exhausted in the effects it engenders, is not a part, but is in itself, a whole within a greater, infinitely dispersed power.

Infinitely dispersed, and specific to its form thus: extensive beyond the specific form that holds, but does not contain it.

It is not an experience, but engenders release from experience by displacement of the subject by the object, and of the object become subject—this is the lighting flash of the sublime.

There can be no judgment because there are no means to measure or compare its power.

It is not judgment, but the annihilation of judgment.

Beauty is to aesthetic power as the trace of an atomic particle in a cloud chamber is to the energy that moves the particle.

The release of aesthetic power is dangerous, destructive of all order, compelling the creation of new forms, new order—which, while indirectly the products of aesthetic power, are but the dead castes of that power—like the glass castes fused in sand by strikes of lightning.

It is nothing without us, as we are nothing without the bodies it violates.

Doing Art

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Bed at 10:30. An odd sort of mood. Like being really agitated without being agitated. Blank. The emptiness of doing when all there is, is doing. Neither reward nor recognition, and such reward is reward for the wrong thing, and such recognition is nothing that matters. Not a bad state–it just is.
That fantasy of peddling a cart and never coming back… or going anywhere. But that’s where I am. What I’m doing. Not going anywhere. Standing in one place. Nothing moves or changes but the things I make, and if I stop I won’t exist. That’s the tricky part. Stop doing what? Only if it’s the right thing… the right doing. And no one can tell you what that is. And you can’t stop.
I glued and nailed to the stretchers of a canvas I’d primed: roofing. rusted mettle. shattered auto glass. Dirt. String. Art should show the world truly.
I need large needles with large eyes, large enough for some lovely, fine hemp cord I bought. I want to darn and sew stuff to a canvas.
Pointless. But do it because doing is all there is. Make and give the stuff away. Or paint over. Free art. Free. But it costs… everything.

Art & Fear: Observations On The Perils (and Rewards) of ARTMAKING

By David Bayles & Ted Orland: Santa Cruz, CA & Eugen, Or.  1994 – 2000

Picked this up at the Faerie Pot Luck. Only 118 pages, but have never read anything better on what goes into making art, for an artist. The motivations, the distracting temptations–what constitutes the only possible reward to keep at it, to keep doing it. I’m a 74 year old artist, and have gone through all the phases of despair, stopping, starting again. This book made me weep with joy. I don’t know that I found much new here, new for me, that is, at this stage in my life and my art, but the confirmation for what I’ve struggled with over so many decades is like a blessed cool rain after a long drought. Would that I had read this book… had it existed, when I was 24.

The reviews on Goodreads either thought it was 5 star (like me)… or didn’t get it. I’d be interested in what other’s who’ve read it have to say about it. Comments welcome.