It is not the proper function of the arts to make statements about politics, and I never like it when it does. It is not the function of arts to inculcate political ideology; it is is called propaganda when aesthetics and political agenda merge, not art.
The law of art is not the law of anything else, it can not be appropriated, for it is a law of beauty and beauty is a pool in which we can feel no bottom. And it has the pretention to spiritualize, elevate the human being, not to politicize her, for that would be to weaken her. And it is a law always proper and true to itself.
No matter what man does to man, however vile and abominable the atrocity, beauty persists. Even in the heat of history's most notorious battles, beauty is present, beauty persists.
Yes. Art is always true to itself. And what exactly is itself? ... What is art, then, really? I think it is the attempt of interpreting God and mystery by man, and it is the futile attempt of communication by the insect to something altogether greater, something supremely important though very hard to pin, to realize, to catch a glimpse of.
But how much can the insect really realize her predisposition in this world? That is the question. And how much can the human realize hers? Well. We try to paint us a picture and we try to channel it through poetry, literature and theatre. We try to figure out our own limitations, and, by the same token, our potential as receivers of otherwordly frequencies. We can not just be flesh and blood; I can not buy that. Animals do not develop psychology and theology and art over millenia. We are guardians of beauty in this world, and that beauty, to understand it, requires a certain mystical sense the human being evidently has. When you detect beauty, you detect beauty. You feel it, you know it, you admire it. That is not even something you choose; you just do. And what else in the world cares about beauty? And of the beauty of insight, knowledge, the will to change, the will to strife? None. No life-form whatsoever. At least that is what I, with hefty humility, speculate.
Art is a strong fir and politics but mere winds, ever-changing, without fixed direction, and in the mighty crown of the fir, aeon-old, the sun warms the egg of a great eagle. Between the eyes of this great eagle sits Veðrfölnir, casting fires and blazes of wrath upon those who believe art is always political and that the human condition is inseparable from the politics with which we try to govern this absolute mess of a world dilapidating slowly, surely, around us.
I strongly repudiate the claim that art is ever-political. Art, beauty and the love for God's glory crushes politics in the hearts of greater men and women. Always and forever, until the end of time.
Do not come with your politics; I do not care. Call me naive, call me selfish, call me spoiled and privileged. I concur! I am all those things! But my peace is more important than your opinion.
O Holy Lord wash the sins off my white body and guard me from these evil poisons! Infect me not with these viruses of a mundane world!!!! I fix my eyes on a higher goal and your critique of that simply rinses off my beautiful body!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ad Maiorem Dei Gloriam.
Inga kommentarer:
Skicka en kommentar