The creation of art is a strange thing;
the process involves you being either buffeted by the currents and eddies of societal doctrines or finding yourself falling endlessly in the abyss of a waking dream from which you can not escape; but rather spat out like some half digested bit of meat. In the end you become completely unbound to the whirl and rush of the conventions of your time and community, only to re-connect again.
The fallout from this back and forth action is either the creation of art or the destruction of the artist.
It’s a frightening and thrilling thing to be unbound. To loose the comfort and protection of science or religion, to be blasted by possibility, becoming everything and nothing only to stand naked before the endless wastes of eternity to be reborn again and again and again… And all this made the worse, because you have no control in the matter.
Why do we do this?
Its a bad question, because it assumes falsely that we have a choice. Like the first of us, who placed his red stained hand upon the stone ceiling of his cave those many thousands of years ago, we as well, are compelled to do this strange thing for reasons unknown.
– from Julian Greigh’s easel –