Aug. 14th, 2008 | 04:27 pm
Funny, one would think that being a self-proclaimed literati, a ravenous glutton of words as well as images, a pretentious philosophe, I would find it easy to express the whats and whys of my artistic undertakings. Turns out, looking inward only exposes the viscera, and worse than the disgust of that image is the familiar imcomprehensibility of myself metaphorically splayed open.
As with the world around me, I have yet to understand much of my own motives, selves, and loves. As with the books I read, my paintings are questions as much as they are answers; the process of brushing paint onto canvas is therapy - a cheaper way to methodological introspection. And when I am in that state (Mozart on the turntable, incense burning - all trappings of your average art-teest) it all comes down to one word, really. Truth. Truth is what I believe to be the highest form of Good, and so I seek it with everything available to me: eyes, words, paint. In this quest, I admit I am hardly ever successful, but as my beloved existentialists would say, happiness lies in the failure.
- N.S. David