“to get clear, i always have to stop, dig deep within myself and ask: were my intentions good? could i really stand behind them? was anybody really harmed? if i’ve actually harmed someone (and the harm isn’t just a drama in their heads), have i owned my responsibility?”

“when i quiet myself down and find the answer within myself, that’s the most important one.
it speaks louder than the voices outside my head and the anonymous voices on the internet.”

“it is to this voice you must listen, or you’re FUCKED.”

The brave and bold may be our only present-day defence against the inoffensive, politically correct, family-friendly, puritan soul-rot.

(footnote: just clicked on a tweet from NG to SKZB and back. Bet my office’s IT dept. is going to have fun if they look up *that* background image in the logfiles!)

However, as to the issue at hand, I don’t know why it has never occurred to me in this form before, but the concept of art as a neurotic symptom occurs to me. That, essentially, seems to be the phenomenon she is referring to. Inoffensive, uninspiring, vanilla-bean art is … safe.

So at the moment, I’m not nearly high enough to follow the spiral ’round and in, but I’m fixating on a vague notion of art as a neurotic symptom, but only in an ironic, self-aware context intended to comment on futility, or something approximately like that. But we can only wish. It’s not every day that someone hands me a thirteen-minute cover of Rhys Chatham, or I accidentally discover that Phillip Glass does write music for conventional instruments.

But thirteen minutes of three guitars playing one note in unison, or—well, you just have to hear Glass’ string quartets. These are incredibly offensive to people because, um, er, well … I don’t know why.

Art as a neurotic symptom. Click. Anyway.

But that’s the thing. If you open yourself for the audience, entrust them with your most arcane secrets, you risk confusing people, and being accused of hiding behind art.

What is the audience hiding behind? Or hiding from? What are the inoffensive, vanilla-bean artisans hiding from?

Out here in the northwest, as I’m sure anyone who has spent time around any Germanic or Scandanavian population in the U.S. can attest, there comes a point where people start apologizing that their furniture is merely Ikea. Suddenly, the bookends from Wal-Mart seem a godsend. Or, perhaps, it is just easier to wonder what’s wrong with people.

Why does anyone become an artist? I always thought it was because in some way, art had made us laugh, think, talk, and wonder. And it changes our lives.

Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe having your artistic vision immortalized in Wal-Mart tchotchke is the height of accomplishment.

The quote, standing alone, is awesomesauce. Thanks for pointing it out.

Re: Amanda Palmer: She is so excellent, I can’t even. And yes, this next project of her has set some very high expectations (it has to justify all the shit she’s embroiled herself in right now) but what the hell, this is AFP. I believe she can do it. And if she doesn’t… well, at least she’s not hiding behind her art. \o/

She says eloquently what I would have used many more words to say awkwardly. I aspire to be as brave as she is, and to stand as squarely behind what I create.

Thanks for posting. :)