Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-25701413-20141117013826

Greetings to anyone reading this. I'm new here, so I figure getting some advice from the regulars would be the best start. I wouldn't want to start off my account by adding tothe list of bad pastas, after all. I've written one (below), and would like some general feedback on it before going through with putting up a page for it. Additionally, I'm not entirely sure if it fits the number of events requirement, so any feedback regarding that would be appreciated.

 Appreciation

Something that the world seems to have lost in its surge towards industrial techno-modernity is its appreciation of art. Oh, some men in galleries and petty intellectuals may claim to understand, but the essence of it is lost to them just as it is to the masses. They ask us to look at brushwork, to examine the curves of stone, to analyse the symbolism in every frame. They talk of art as having a life of its own, get so close to the greatest element of art, yet fall so short.

A great work of art, as all living things, must one day die.

In the past this was understood and embraced. Works would be experienced, they would pass on their message, and over time they would be allowed to grow old and die, crumbling out of existence, mirroring the nature of the artists who created them. Copies might be made, yes, but each was its own work, a child of the art it emulated, identical but in its own way unique. Now our so called ‘lovers’ of art will do all they can to drag life out of every poor work, sticking it in a cage of glass and covering it with chemical life support, doing all they can to stop it from being experienced as it should be, stopping it from dying by denying it life.

I, in my own small way, have resolved to change this. Liberating a work from its prison is less difficult than one would expect, often a simple case of carefully removing the glass cell door and smuggling the captive to freedom. The real challenge lies in finding a new home for the poor thing, one where it will be allowed to live without being dragged back to the torture chamber. A small pub for a painting, given under the pretence of being a clever fake; a back-alley cinema for film, a gracious donation of a classic to a struggling establishment.

I admit that it seems an odd preoccupation, the love of art. By the words I have penned you must assume that I care for nothing in life but the stroke of the brush, but that could not be further from the truth. To live life is to create your own personal work, and I most definitely consider myself an artist.

It is regretful that the modern lifestyle has left many unable to appreciate art, but its oblivious approach to mortality and love of instant gratification gifts great favour to those who wish to appreciate the art of the human body. Many dismiss it as mundane, but can anything be of greater wonder than the art of the Almighty? Humanity itself tacitly admits this fact. Other works are forced to live, kept in a torturous state of limbo as they are preserved and corrected, but the human body is allowed to grow old and die, celebrated as it passes from this world.

Just last night I wandered through a club, the aroma of sweat and alcohol filling my nostrils, the pounding heartbeat of some dance track assaulting my ears, my eyes searching for a work to experience. As I passed through the arena of conquest, many interesting specimens caught my eye, but at last I found one that sent any thoughts of the others fleeing. Her body was flawless, the sight of it stealing the breath from my lungs. The handiwork of the Lord was evident in everything from legs to bosom to behind. Her face, however, bore none of His marks. The flesh was stretched thin, frozen as it was sent reeling in terror by the knife of some monster, her lips artificially swollen, set by a cold, cynical mind to appeal to the baser instincts of man. The cuts that had desecrated that face had faded, yet still they screamed to me in agony, telling me the story of a marvel futily tearing itself apart as it attempted to resist the work of time.

It was not difficult to gain her attention. A subtle gesture here, a whispered promise there, and we left together, the artist and the abomination. Returning to my abode, I experienced the work of the Lord, allowing the beauty of his creation to wash over me as I tried to ignore the sacrilege sitting upon it. The experience was soon over and I fell into a troubled sleep, torn between the beauty and the beast that tarnished it.

It is there that I find myself now; presented with a great conundrum. I am put in a position where a desecration of art is placed before me, a moral responsibility to let it go and a moral responsibility to set right was has been done. This isn’t the first time. Many of God’s finest works are ruined by the clumsy hands of those unable to appreciate them, and some have always found their way to me. People need to be reminded that a work of art is like a life.

A work of art must be allowed to die.  