In yesterday's entry, I made a big fuss about its obligatory image being the precursor of this present post's picture, which I claimed would be a masterpiece. Now I'm in the embarrassing position of having to make good on my promise; so here's the finished product. See below. It's clearly not a real masterpiece, but it does possess the spirit of a masterpiece — allow me to explain:
GUERNICA is a large oil painting by Pablo Picasso; I've even heard it referred to as a "mural"; and it's also a certified masterpiece, so we can use it as our paragon to determine just what a masterpiece should consist of. Well, rumor has it that Picasso made various preliminary sketches before completing the final version of that work. I once saw these sketches or "studies" represented in an art book; and I noted something profound about their relation to the mural that they preceded: All the studies were small, and the mural was big. That's what I gleaned from studying the studies. So when I myself determined to undertake my own masterpiece, I dutifully rendered an assortment of small-scale sketches of multiple subjects (see the aforementioned image from yesterday's blog post for this source); then I developed these ideas into a full-blown masterpiece, which spans the centerfold in my Book of 300 Drawing Prompts, whose previous page appeared on March 29. (I always hyperlink the pages, so that I can use my computer to "virtually flip thru" or "browse" the e-book online. It's extremely tedious.)
A perceptive spectator will discern that the image is divided by vertical lines into three distinct panels:
- The fruition of my preparatory studies is confined exclusively to the leftmost section called "Noah's ark". These words were the pre-printed prompt that I was to instantiate. One might also note that this final masterpiece is inferior to the original sketch-work. That is correct.
- Then, to the right, in the midsection, the prompt was "Lit candle", so I painted a number of poetic visions illuminating the essence of that particular concept.
- Finally the rightmost panel has been left blank. This is not a mistake: this was intentional. It's known as a brilliant use of negative space. The prompt for that section was "Hourglass". If you were an art critic, I would not fault you for having asserted, in your review of my masterpiece for your magazine (and I quote), "the artist probably intended here to convey the notion that time has now run out".
Alright? OK! I think we nailed it. Now here's the main body text that I wrote to accompany today's obligatory image:
Dear dairy,
I often wonder about the origin & purpose of human life. It seems as tho there are two distinct possibilities: either humans are a random fluke spat up by flux, or we were “planned” by some unknown out there: God or the Universe or Endlessness or the Poetic Genius, etc. The nice thing about this either-or scenario is that both answers perplex me. (I like being perplexed.) For if we were an intentional creation by X, Y, or Z, then we can spend our days wondering about what our mission was really supposed to be; and we can hypothesize about what series of mishaps must have suicided our Creator; and we can wonder if it’s possible for us to go extinct also and be half-forgotten like a bad dream. Whereas, on the other hand, if humans came about via some random process of subatomic junk simply colliding around, then it seems certain that we have no real purpose, no aim or mission, and also it’s practically inevitable that we’ll soon pop like a soap bubble.
It’s actually amazing how long we humans have lasted: that’s like rolling a couple of dice and getting doubles twice in a row!
In summary, if some force made mankind for a reason, then it’s funny to see how far off-script we’ve veered; yet likewise it’s funny if we’re purely the product of chance, because all of our sensemaking then resembles a fragment of randomness declaring: “I, the integral whole, am the opposite of random”; we’re like a philosopher writing “I think, therefore I am”.
That purposelessness could invent the idea of purpose is a notion that always tickles me.
But enough abstract dallying and sallying; we have work to do. And by we I mean I; and by work I mean not really work but reporting on work. For I need to report to you that I have been working on stuff:
Today was scary for me, because I sort of finished putting together my bathroom sink. The keenest reader will detect that I added the phrase “sort of” before the word “finished” — this is because I never feel that I’ve done an adequate job, when it comes to reality. In fantasy, I’m fine: I do well here. I slay the dragon, & I embrace lovely chaos; then I turn my back on my lover & take up arms against her ocean to create a stable world, & I distribute meaning & purpose to all life; then I ask life to praise me (thus becoming the dragon myself; for life is chaos, & any fresh genius is my vanquisher). So I’m good at godhood. But when it comes to actually installing a sink that works, I’m only partway there.
A sink possesses many functions: it must give water, and it must receive water. Also a sink possesses a basin, which cradles water periodically; so it’s much like a stomach. (Everything resembles a stomach, except a stomach. That’s not true, of course; I’ve just always wanted to say that.) What I’m trying to report is that I installed a dressing table beneath the sink, a medicine cabinet on the drywall, a new light fixture above the looking glass, and at last the sink itself. There were pipes running into the sink, and pipes coming out from the sink. So the scene resembled a stomach, like I just said. Now the pipes that bring the water into the sink were my foremost fear: I was worried that I’d not be able to screw the valves properly and thus the…
Right in the middle of explaining, I recoil from saying a single word more about home repair. It bores me to death. I’m interested in poetry & thinking, art in general, lazing about & laughing & playing. Those are my interests. Note that they do not contain the idea of plumbing, construction or carpentry.
So why do I so frequently catch myself in the trap of relaying the details of my physical handiwork? You’re exactly right: our economic system is so rotten that professional daydreamers must take on vulgar labor to make ends meet. I resent that with all my heart.
But just when I was installing our upper-level’s new floor, we were threatened by floodwaters in our basement; so I got diverted from the original wretched task, thus it may never get completed. Then, while I was trying to work on our sink, the kitchen light decided to die: it just flickered & snapped. Plus we need to extend our gutter system’s downspouts (the drains that channel the rain away from the foundation); therefore, until THAT grunt-work is accomplished, I can’t tackle any of the other whiny chores. (These house repairs are like babies that need feeding, and I just don’t have enough breasts.) So, since entropy keeps outpacing my rate of improvement, I feel embarrassed at the state of our existence, and I’m tempted to quit. — Not to quit existing: just to quit attempting to better the world.
What I’m trying to say is that whenever I deign to wrestle the world of physics, I feel that I’m wasting my fill-in-the-blank. But I never feel this way when I choose to write words. I think words are fun and good, and I enjoy writing them; also I enjoy reading words written by others, because they are a spyhole to alien intellects. If you tell yourself that language is a shortcut into the secrets of strangers’ minds, you can almost grow convinced of this opinion. That’s what I prefer to do. Even if words are computer-generated, like if they get churned out by machine intelligence, I still like to read them. Who knows how much of its heart that computer’s processor invested in penning a given composition.
But especially when writers relay simple daily occurrences, the type of things that seem humdrum & uninteresting when they happen to oneself: I find this magnetic. As a reader, I am invariably desiring to escape from my own dreadful existence, and the dullest day of another’s life is paradise to me. Even if the only act that a person ever engages in is to stare at her shoes, so her diary entry consists of just one sentence: “Well, I stared at my shoes again today: I can’t figure out how it came to be that one slipper is ruby while its mate is silver.”—that’s gold to this reader. I never have anything so exciting happen to ME.
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