The Three Artistic Tenant Triangle:

In art, an artist and any concrete attempt to measure their skill can rest on basically three concepts: Creativity, Technique, and Composition.

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Creativity: This is the element that scares most people away.  However, it tends to be the glimmer of hope that keeps even the most fledgling artist persevering through the hate. For if people saw they could hold fire and shape it to their will, they would be entranced, at least enough to continue even through the burn. They would yearn to live for and give their livers daily for such a gift.  Creativity is the skill to see life, replicate life, and imbue a representation of life into, through and from a media, telling a story and letting life be a little more. It is within creativity’s grasp, one realizes being crazy is not particularly a bad thing. For it can be the inspiration from which the mind looking forward with forethought, can hue all manner of things from the depths of their imagination to reveal beauty to the mortal lands of reality.

         So from the hidden celestial heights, close to his breast, an artist bears a hollowed reed holding an idea sparking. Hard the heart beats, for the artist runs, his purpose being pursued, haunted by a sense of the divine on his heels. For this spark, this possibility held dear, snatched from the clouds, has been occluded high, held there to limp, though epic, hidden low key. But astride mortal limbs, this idea freed, may burn, rage, incinerate all that would oppose, igniting the night with glories rising higher than pyre flaming into inferno. Such a power did not cost an arm and leg, just a liver, yet gave life such a luster worth living.

For creativity is the fire that still lights an artist’s imagination.

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Technique: The objective one, the learned one, the most artificial because it can be artifaced, made and created in any heart willing to learn and put in the work, the hours to struggle and strive, to climb the mountain. For there is a mountain–yet you in your feebleness can ascend it. It will be hard but try, persevere and be. Technique is the artist’s knowledge of the media they are trying to work in–the media’s strengths and weaknesses, its limits and unique special abilities.

Here is where the jargon resides, abstract concepts congregate, and definitions categorize, trying to sterilely conceptualize life and the action of representing it, to a science known, words understood, themes analyzed, and life snapped and shot.

           See, hear the phoenix resting in ashes, never to rise again, yet we now know how it would have flapped its wings. We’ve dissected it, we know all its theory, how hypothetically it could fly, yet there it lays, technically known and totally dead.  Technique is the realm of academics, critics, haters and know it alls. But it remains a necessary utility, for a carver must know how to hold a chisel, the painter the brush, the photographer to point the lens, the tubist to understand the silence seen in noted rest,  the poet to enjamb elusive euphemisms, and digital artist to guide that mouse and ctrl-Z with speed and deftness.

So learn the techniques of media you want to use.

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Composition: So how to put this–simply why modernity sucks, your toddler is not the next Picasso, and your Emperor is stark naked in the street though all the sensible adults are loving the lace, specifically how it blows in the breeze, long, fluttery and dangling. Get your mind out of the gutter and go see your priest. Notice the inlay in the confession booth–after all there is not much else to see. Observe how the patterns are intricately laid, how the pattern repeats itself rhythmically, and how there at least seems to be a sense of order.

       For anyone’s two year old can throw up over a canvas, burp and screech attention to their direction, and design a new adult fashion line using your scissors, your sharpies and your skirts, especially the really cute one, now cut one, the one that cost you some. God has blessed everybody with the skill to paint a canvas blue then mark it with a bold white line. Yes, the emperor does strut boldly and must, for a breeze threatens to blow blue his face. Composition transcends creativity for it is the question of narrative as it asks how does your choice of color, themes, and ideas tell a story. How does your work show a perspective on life, speak to the audience by the arrangement of the piece’s elements and decisions made to put together the image before the beholder’s eye. Composition ascends from the objectiveness of Technique because it lives and bares a soul, going beyond the textbook.

      Anyone can read words, memorize concepts, reflect ideas yet it is a different skill to string words into sentences, to conceive concepts beyond the parental chromosomes, and illustrate ideas concisely in a logical understandable way. You need to know when to add, when to subtract, and realize when it is just enough to lock in gold. Then you will actually command respect and not just appear to, you there buff in the wind. Go see the priest, be clothed in the composition of the creator’s care. For not one hair falls astray if He hath not deemed it to so quit throwing paint at the canvas and claiming to be inspired. Gravity and entropy paint with only one brush and it is highly synonymous to a grim reaper’s scythe.

So compose yourself, prepare, make, and be.              

 

Now this artistic triangle is more of a suggestion, a trove to be raided where some thoughts on life are held. So explorer esteemed, will you carry from under the grim bleakness of the mundane, this torch offered to the world beyond? For art is not just skill subtle, creativity is not craziness capriciously cute, technique is not just craft cunning as composition is not just arrangements appearing–no, art is life often held within, in the ground beneath mortal pedantry. However, it was not meant to just stay there. Such a glory essential to earth was meant to be shared, freed, displayed, explored and contemplated so people would answer more than “eh” when thinking about their existence.

    Creativity, Technique, Composition, these three tenants residing in art’s halls help. For as they commune as a triangle, they frame the artistic endeavor, structure our work with points graspable, and present an angle at which even the feeblest, faintest, finite spark of an idea can try to catch the wettest of wood, warm the coldest of hearts, and be a flame fighting, a fire inspiring, a star shining for others to perceive.  We are not all elegantly equipped equilateral nor were we meant to be. Some will stand tall on two legs while withering in width, others will awkwardly strut and jut out with rods of differing lengths, yet make all the points connect. Right, cute and obtuse we may seem–still let the haters relate and critics canter, but artists let us try, and if at first we don’t succeed, let us through all severances pursuing, bear the sparks close to our chest,

Run, learn our craft’s technical limits,

Roll, clothe our ideas in forms chosen,

Stroll, for even as earth surrenders to winter’s descent, the sun yet rises.

 

For brilliance however dim must not be hidden and the land must not be left to wither to weather’s whims. The sun still shines and we artists should imbue this living sphere beyond the mundaneness of “eh”    

 

Yet the fourth shadow concept exists and persist–the Artistic Angst:  

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Sigh, So slow, So long

Or a Raving Rant about my Artistic Process

When colors occlude as words to the weary fail to shine
For colors, so vibrant, twirl, lighten loads of life to define
So such pleasures sought, we weak, tremble away from work to do
As pleasant thoughts entice us from hard glories to attain and chew
The stress as thus enthralls many to paths beaten worn well toward wide
Yet gold glimmers under stores held hard, petrified, from the casual, denied
Ugh in so few
I’m frustrated
Fractured streams of thoughts, such sinuous smoke slides on the sly before me
Then is gone
Stories swirl up in here, thoughts felt, dreams of futures ahead
Yet instead, tubin away I mope, medicating in mindlessness, watch a world whirl
By, as I still, kept in carapace, unassailed, unmarked steeled such stainless   
Incarcerated, in silver set, I lie by, discarnated, the spirit sees beyond
But held, is denied to move
So I sit
A chair for second
From such stature stagnant
Such a soul stilted
Sturs the hamster hesitant
But the stone takes the Sisyphean stroll back to birth
For though apex atop in the whirl’s circular spin
At best life is a spiral towards a line flat, fallen and at an end
So to be, before to not, as such I aspire
As thou art in color or in letting loose scripts, I aim
Though the becoming burdens bear, bounding barely beyond barren
Still, I’ll try
Still, I’ll go on
In colorful words
Within worlds colored

Long post?–Have a pear! 😉

appearant

Dear Writing . . .

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Dear Writing,

      Sorry, So so sorry, it’s me, not you but lately, I’ve been busy, maybe too busy. Or lazy, yep that’s probably it. Lazy. But I’m back–I’m trying to, at least–hey give me some credit. It’s hard these days, you know–I got a job, adult responsibilities, articles to read, old writings to review, the past to reminisce about–like remember when we had so much time and I had so much energy, that I would just write everything and anything, the only thing stopping me was that I was tired, or really had to go to the bathroom, or there were way too many words with red jagged underlines?

Yep, those were the days, those were . . . But now, now dreary old now, I so live for the weekend, as the week, ugh don’t remind me! Yet the good thing is that it does fly fast–before you know it, it’s Friday, yay! Friday night is seriously the best because I can work on art–oh whoops, I forgot, yeah, how to say it . .  .so yeah  . . I’ve been hanging out with art a lot more these days, uh sorry. Art is so vibrant, with all the colors you can throw on the screen, and all those lines and curves I can manipulate into form. The stories I can tell are endless–not to say, I can’t tell stories with you as well, Writing.  But it is so hard sometimes to get started–your great blank white pages stare at me and I shiver, oh I shiver and sometimes  all I want to do is curl up into a ball and play my 3DS. Yeah, you’re right–art has white pages as well. But you see there, I can quickly change that with  a nice bland pastel rectangular background. With a couple odd shapes, though awkwardly arranged into a blocky form, already I can see in my creative eye the beginnings of a masterpiece.

But with you, Writing, 5 minutes in, and that measly sentence or two, lonely floating in a  sea of white, silently heckling me as in my head, a million thoughts racing are showing me all the things I could be doing now, and I just can’t think of the next thing I want to say. So 30 minutes, later when a teenager of a paragraph stares up at me, red lines like warts blinking everywhere, half-thought-out sentences with ands, other conjunctions streaming along a pile of miserably incoherent tangents meandering through a prose so magenta even Prince would be scared to wear it, I just simply don’t know–I don’t know it I care enough to wade through it , and clean up those sentences in bad need of liposuction, a diet (NOT A SEE FOOD DIET), and exercise–or even if I care enough to continue on with this train of thought, whose engine of an idea was so bright and friendly like Thomas until we started up that hill–many axles were more that scuffed in the climb. Yet at the top, all I could see was the upcoming mountain and, uh, uh I just couldn’t, just couldn’t anymore–Facebook break.

Whoops, that was a long time, a lot of cats, though. Anyway, where was I? Ah, the real reason why I wrote this. Um, erm, so, eh, last month October, the 10th month, even though in Latin it literally means the eighth month–but I digress, to save me more time, uh, please. So in October, there is this thing called Inktober you may have heard about. It is about drawing every single day in ink and posting it. So the good news–yay, good news–is that I was able to do that, even some of my post were kind of late, give a day/weeks or something like that. But, erm, the bad news. So this month is November, the 11th–okay, I’ll get to my point. In November, there is NaNoWriMo in which you are supposed to write 50,000 words. While not exactly doing that, in the vein of it I had hoped to write some stuff with you Writing this November but as they say, “Hopes are fickle things like butterflies who as they flit often fly in front of lit flamethrowers.” Naive butterflies fried. But anyways, I have a concession–letters. Together we can write letters to many different things–projects that need cheering up, poems that need to be written, art that is still struggling to get itself together. These letters could be fun  just like this one was. And with that, Writing, dear old friend, I am sorry about this month but don’t hold it against me, I’m a busy lazy man but I’ll make sure to hang with you more often.

 

Until the next  keystroke and cursive letter,

Lelantos Lynx        

Sleepy Music

With a rhythmic ruse

Doth my gentle muse

my set focus skews

as a poem she cues

 

thus stanzas here ooze

as verses she doth fuse

shaping shiftly the hues

shadows glistening she brews

 

thus when I wish to snooze

with thoughts flowing doth she abuse

her poet dear, sleep she doth excuse

but with discordant verses she imbues

 

So with coffee, ideas will amuse

as a shy vimful lyric accrues

Sleep feints, as rhythms perfuse

thus nightly the fight continues . . .

So Poet Wonder

 

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Click to see a bigger version!

 

A fire burned, cauldron fright

A world yearned, raging might

A mind turned, thinking bright

Yet a law spurned, destroying light

 

For it was night, the poet amused

In the darkness, ideas livid enthused

They screamed lunacy, such laws accused

Disconcerted, ideas vivid slept unused

 

Poet lies bemused, haltered arts stay

Vibrant in darkness yet dim during day

Stary, the muse sings , a nightly fay

Guiding her poet, in her lunar sway

 

Thus poet stray, these laws not hold thee

Dive, stroke hard against that strifeful sea

Moon above, create, let worlds witted be

Sleep is for the mourning, so dry that coffee

See, These Ships Sink

These ships are sinking, we must find a shore secure

Sure, these boats have carried us as is known in lore

Yet these husks are rotten, brim ragged of holes

Sending these sculls to depths, drowning all clinging souls

 

So save our souls, in a meaning clear

Amend our ardor, truth without smear

Rescue our reason, rend rectitude right

Salvage our spirit, redeem us from the trite

 

On these waters, we words once meant something

Yet these swells of culture were sadly perverting

So on these oceans of life, new words must sail anew

For under these depths, we must sleep dead, there accrue

Busy by a Bee

Arrested by imbued grandeur’s glands 

As by a buzz I was stung you see

Nerved to rave, weaving strands

worths verbose, all this by a bee


For that fury desired for me

To write in a wry array

That pollen packer set free

That which would stay


Dear Apis aptly, stare 

See melius melior be

Yet for chap’s sake fair

Leave me instigation free