But what does it really mean?
A common misconception, or rather, a misplaced query often posed by audiences when viewing art, that works of creation can be sufficiently taken apart and understood in absolutism, or even dissected for a complete understanding of the artist’s intentions.
I’ve heard many a variation of the age-old query posed; all well-intended, but nonetheless extraneous.
The study of art has long relied on psychoanalysis as the basis for interpretation, and there has been no greater emphasis on the
“deeper meaning of art” through the emphasis on psychoanalytical tenets of art than in Surrealist factions.
In the age of information systems — where we are imbued into the matrix of computing — art is revolutionised.
Baudrillard-ian theories of a world dominated by mass media, images, signs, and any other simulacra is no longer a philosophical study of a potential future, but rather realism embodied.
Media culture has created an information overload, and the subsequent implications on the ways in which we view and approach the vast amounts of information made available to us through mass media. …
Visa applications and restrictions withal, there are boat loads of other social issues that plague the endeavour. Definitely not for the weak-willed, but nonetheless rewarding.
I graduated from University in July 2019 (for the second time), and this around, Mother and Father insisted on attending their first ever graduation ceremony. I relented.
Not 30 minutes after walking down the 20 metre square platform, came the all too familiar “good job, time to get a job now” comment from my emotionally subdued Mother whilst we pushed past a hall full of sweaty, over zealous fresh graduates, their parents, friends, caterers, university…
In the midst of the global pandemic, I found myself like many others, scrambling for any work possible. In my particular instance, living abroad on a work visa, as an arts professional meant only one thing — unemployment.
As I find myself in yet another lockdown, the prospects of my return to work after a year long hiatus have long been extinguished. Couldn’t say the same for the efforts of the thousands of protestors, well, protesting the very existence of a pandemic, after the horrific 2 years we’ve had. Cowboy aliens or flat world pigeon-drones I guess.
Haruki Murakami, the author of inspiration to, and unapologetically revered by academics, tired mums and dads scraping through a few pages a night while their child sleeps for a thankful 12 minutes, novel readers (both readers of novels and new readers alike), and even the pea-milk drinking, $599 premium finger picked and individually kissed organic cotton, don’t breathe too close to me or your saliva will combust my t-shirt hipsters, wrote in his famed Norwegian Wood:
If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking.
The wristwatch — an invention so peculiar yet an undoubted imperative for anyone who has shit to do.
If we take Einstein’s word for it, everything is relative, and the absolutism of time (see: meeting at 130pm sharp, or that 5pm hard deadline for an assignment) seems entirely arbitrary.
If time is so relative, and technically redundant, then why the need for a time-keeping device?
Unfortunately for us, a functional, modern day society operates on a tight-schedule; a lack in proper scheduling and synchronisation would mean that parts of the world would be easily left with little to none resources…
There is an ensuing issue arising in the art historical world, where the rise, resilience, and reliance on digital media and technology has slowly, but surely altered the ways in which people receive and respond to art: Democracy in art curatorship and consumption is steadily rising, threatening to (and quite possibly already kickstarted) overthrown archaic notions of good or respectable art worthy of distribution and reverence.
When I kicked off my Medium journey, I began with a short lament about the sky of my new home being uncannily blue. As my familiarity with my new home slowly grew into a natural disposition of mine, I found the shock and unsettling hue of the new skies more alluring and homely with each passing day, to an extent where old photographs of the skies I used to call my own have now taken on the role of the uncanny.
Ask me 15 years ago what I thought of my 40 odd-year-old parents, and the response would have ranged from a giant EWW to boring, with a healthy commentary of “I don’t ever want to be like that”.
That entitlement as a fresh faced teenager would slowly wane over the years, transforming into quite the opposite — a kinship, a respect, even a longing to be a little more like my parents.
With the perils of adulthood, I find myself struggling to keep up with a lifestyle devoid of responsibilities. Filing my taxes on time is like jumping through hoop…
— Originally written in January 2021 —
With the 2019 pandemic (god has it already been over a year?), I haven’t been home for over a year now. This year, I, like many others (hopefully) will not partake in the largest annual human migration, in efforts to curb the potential spread of that ceaselessly resilient virus. That also means that this would be the first Lunar New Year I would have to begrudgingly spend alone, thousands of miles away from my home country, away from family and friends.
As the year of the Ox approaches, I find myself stubbornly and…
Not Tristram Shandy.