A banana duct taped to the wall. Van Gogh’s Blue period. Dickinson’s feathers of hope and Plath’s Bell Jar…what is so intriguing about the human mind? Timeless forms of art and literature, a post-modern amalgamation of highbrow and lowbrow pieces of art, have somehow managed to attract the curious, possibly bored, eyes of millions, across centuries. What are we searching for? Why do we grasp desperately at objects of life, meaning, purpose, reading between lines and analysing abstract manifestations of the word ‘grief’? We propel ourselves forward…a generation of Hollow Men, seeking to ephemerally sustain ourselves with drops of blues and an overused metaphor, until our inevitable day of reckoning.
I think humanity can be prone to cynical undertones— unsurprising, given the infinite metaphysic universe within our phones— a portal into constant dopamine hits, media headlines, cats and string, global conflicts, how to start a seven figure company before turning 21, pandemic crises, a celebrity cancellation— falling into the algorithm and political binaries that segregate us into good or evil that would put The Crucible to shame. Yet we want more. Glass half empty, glass half full—sometimes I think we are so focused on filling the other half of the glass that we forget to drink.
Oscar Wilde said, ‘to define is to limit’, and I believe the 20th century notion of Cubism illuminates this very notion. That art and literature can often fail to represent all perspectives at once, much like our human inability to view things accurately, from various perspectives, often ‘tunnel-visioned’ into seeing things from our own subjective realities. We must seek the metanarratives rather than the grand narrative. Yet the universal, potent, and persevering potential of art speaks to Wilde’s statement—that nothing can, or should be defined—to allow growth, change, and infinite interpretation, because as Cubism states: A singular image or story cannot be told from a single perspective.
As our world progresses, increased technology will grow alongside the persevering nature of art, and the commodification of art will ensue— this has already happened, through NFTs (non-fungible-tokens) as one example. Will this diminish the purpose and integrity of art? I hope not— but what is art if not a fluid substance, moulded and shaped by us humans, as we milk gratification and satisfaction from not only reading or viewing art, but feeling art? We replay a song a thousand times, milking it over and over until we are sick of it— we replay emotions— until we discard it and move onto the next thing to desperately grasp at. And this replays.
On Thursday I spent ten minutes in silence. No phone, no music, no distractions. A blank wall, a timer. Legs crossed on the cold hardwood floor. In this process, I engaged elements of mindfulness and mediation that I learnt through various psychologists and readings— focusing on my breath, and observing my thoughts rather than engaging in them. This was an attempt to combat dopamine addiction, and forge a foundation for creative ideas. I believe the most original ideas occur when the mind is empty. In this experiment I found myself traversing across various ideas; one being the Bergsonian notion of interior time.
I started with a goal of five minutes in silence.
It resulted in ten.
A banana duct taped to the wall. Van Gogh’s blue period. Dickinson’s feathers of hope and an empty Bell Jar…remember to pause within the desperate 21st century lust for ‘more’.
To drink from the glass, rather than struggling to fill the other half.
