Egon Schiele, Decaying Mill
There's a thing that bugs me.
Not that that this thing makes me angry; I mean it's a thing that I can't resolve in my life or in my head or in my gut. That bugs me. And this is it:
Music and literature move me in hugely emotional ways. Body engulfing ways; heart exploding ways. All the time. And artworks don't do that very often. Actually, I can't recall being moved by an artwork in that extreme reactive way ever.
I'm not much of a writer, and I'm definitely not a musician, but I am an artist. So what the heck is up with me?
Don't get me wrong--I love art, and I love looking at artwork. But what artworks do is seep into me over a long period of time, following the viewing. And I often can't let go of the need to see them again, or own them. I think about them, and feel a longing, but it is a much milder, and maybe more intellectual reaction than the emotional engulfment engendered by a piece of music I'm hearing, or a book passage I am reading. The search for an artwork experience that matches the intensity of a music or literature experience dogs me.
I'm curious--bugged is more accurate--if this is even a possibility. Am I searching for that which cannot be? Probably need to somehow quit thinking about it, but I can't.
Thanks for checking out this post--Your thoughts and ideas on this will be welcome.
I can change my mind, not my blood
--Teddy Thompson
