art and beans….

i’m not an artist. i create. i crave to create. i have no choice. i’m not some wonder on display. my art has no value. i don’t need some asshole tell me how much it costs. i don’t need him to evaluate my work, my talent. i have no talent. what i create is a result of agony, of struggle, of a search…it’s not the final destination, it never will be. it’s the process that matters to me…whenever i come to some point of feeling like i’ve created sth real….it means i will want to destroy it at some point in the future. because art is not static. art is not an object. art is an expression. for me. art is life. i create because i’m alive. and when i’ll be dead my art will be dead as well. there’s no point to its existence beyond my own existence. and i’m definite that if Rothko knew how much fuss would be created about his art after his death, he would have burnt it all before dying. people contemplate about art because they are blocked in their own minds. art is love. without passion, without pain, art is lifeless and empty. you can as well buy a can of beans and look at it daily. even this act will mean more than defining someone’s artwork. an artist doesn’t need a tag. if he does, he is prostituting art. he’s in fact cheaper than a can of beans. 


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