Thursday, August 23, 2012

Stream of consciousness

We do not write because we want to; we write because we have to.

I am certainly no Somerset Maugham and despite all solemn aspirations to write regularly, attempts have been feeble at most. Time is no friend of mine. From the premature crows feet to the open all hours purgatory that shares my employer's name, its my karmic retribution for listless days squandered in idleness.

Nevertheless the need to write overtakes me with such passion at times that I ought to get checked out for whiplash. And despite or rather in spite of turning over many a leaf, it's the familiar motivations that draw me back to the keyboard - the same desire to take stock of the world, seeking that elusive clarity and redemption.

Still, writing is an indulgence. Like a truffle, heady, arduous and mostly because some pigs have been involved in getting one to this point.

Despite trying to straight jacket my right brain so that I can crunch figures all day without wanting to throw myself against a wall, I deeply envy those whose daily jobs involve mind bending creativity. (financial creativity does not fall under this category. Mostly it's called fraud. Not good.)

Speaking of art, after my tour of museums and their respective catalogues, my observation is that yes, glory can be harnassed and nailed on the wall. Yet today, everyday creativity - pure and unadulterated, lives on the streets. No longer the vestal virgin in hallowed halls but the wise cracking, weed smoking, sex mongering, public space occupying Eco warrior. Its in your face with its subtle nuances and makes you wonder, what the hell is this all about and how do you come along for the ride.

My current infatuation is with Herakut. Hera and Akut are two German graphic designers who do awesome-est street art. Something that can and will get you arrested in Malaysia if it's slogans are too rebellious for political zealots ever ready to go the punative route to demonstrate their righteousness. My favourite piece featured here.

Back to the hoity toity art scene. What I find, as a stranger looking in, is that while the expression and appreciation of art and even music, is all embracing, yet the fraternity is unapologetically clique-y, requiring initiation of some sort into their esteemed presence. Between snobbery and pride, who is to say which one is which. Yet, I am sure you will at some point or anther, find yourself in the company of a particularly distinguished practitioner, or worse - critic, who will forget that they are mortal and invite bodily harm by being an educated asshole. You can usually hear them from afar as they be speaking the English as if they were tutored by Princess Anne herself. And they be obnoxious as a cat and loud as a donkey. Still, I should not be insulting the animals.

Okay enough with the insults. Time for bed.


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