The internet is a seductive devil, isn’t it? It is so very easy to track down information about your favourite artists, to feed your hungry curiosity. Where did they go to school? Who did they love? Who do they hate? More, more more! We are compelled to look for explanations for the art that moves us. We want to know the secret to it. We want to look at the art, then the artist, and announce our deducted reasoning of what drove the artist to make that art.
Stop. Please stop. YOU ARE RUINING THE MAGIC.
You’re demanding to know how the sausage is made. But if you knew (or thought you knew) exactly how it was made, you’d see only the component parts. It’s all lips and assholes. Wish fulfillment and artist self-inserts. Nothing special. Nothing spiritual. No magic.
Is your life so full of contentment and satisfaction that you need no sense of magic and mystery? What a special child you are. The rest of us trudge through this world of material needs and human concerns, carrying the weight of this mortal coil and the daily demands of the flesh. Art gives us a peek at the divine. Even the ugly art, especially the ugly art, speaks to our spirit and brings us respite.
When you mistake the artists for the art, you rob yourself of the audience’s true power: the power of interpretation. In a perfect world, the artist completes the work and leaves it at your proverbial doorstep. An orphan with no history. You, the audience, now get to define the art as you experienced it. Your interpretation may be the antithesis of what the artist had in mind, and that is also part of the magic. The art lives independant of the artist. The art is not real until it collides with the audience. It’s the resulting explosion that matters.
Chris Loblaw, Author 