Archive for June, 2012

Original Art versus Artistic Originality: from the Perspective of a Human Prism


Original Art versus Artistic Originality: from the Perspective of a Human Prism

Hisham M Nazer

30th June, 2012

 

 

The word ‘artistic’ has several meanings besides that which is related to art and aesthetics, and among them ‘artificial’ is one: the conscious designing by an intellectual entity—a design by ‘craft’, almost scientific. I used the word ‘entity’ not to sound philosophical, rather by that specific appellation- ‘intellectual entity’, which incorporates a wider variety of agents capable of craft, for example spiders with their cob-webs, or the honey bees with their hives, I proposed a condition which is opposite to that of an original, human artist. And such is the meaning of the word ‘artistic’ in my title. On the other hand ‘Original Art’ is not merely a ‘conscious designing of an intellectual entity’ but a creation, often sub-conscious, of a ‘Human self’.

 

On a metaphorical note, often to feign an artistic originality, which actually is based on offshoot ‘popular preference’, romantics tend go to Paris ‘to love’ artistically, as a matter of artificial fancy, and not to ‘be found’ in love (with anything) realistically as a matter of normal fact. That is dishonesty, and a lousy effort to design a prospect to prosper. Writing for a purpose, or even to merely ‘please’ readers, is like this: you end up as a rich man roaming around the roads of Paris to find a posh resto, have a few rounds of The Martini, flaunt, laugh-chat-n-talk, entertain and at night go to bed all fuddled and foul. Lo! My dear, art is not served only in a day artistically spent! A true writer never writes to ‘please’ anyone but a ‘need’, self-originated, mysterious and unavoidable. Think of Michelangelo chiseling the rough stone to bring out David in a religiously conservative country! Probably then we would have to stand before a fully dressed David, and the great artist’s talent then would get limited by this addition.

 

It is by attending this genuine passion that a writer may truly create something extremely artistic, which in turns serves not only an aesthetic end but a realistic and a spiritual one too. Roughly, the ‘thing’ that Literature (or any art-form) essentially is, is more than ‘literature’ itself as we know it. Actually there is no such thing as a ‘true writer’ when we talk about ‘Genuine Art’ and its beyond-the-boundary significances, because the title ‘writer’ is a profession that promises to serve others, sometimes even without a genuine passion for the subject she is dealing with in her writing. So whenever it is about a ‘true someone’ related to any original work of art, it is rather a ‘passionate visionary’, or a sensitive spirit with a strong power of subtle observation and whose mind is pregnant with intense imagination and sensibility. Thus not only the readers get served, but also get spirituallybenefited though the effect remains oblique and often uncomprehended. But that is better than comfortably understanding cheap ‘intellectual entertainment’ devoid of any real depth. A writing coming up from the core of a ‘human’ and not of a ‘social title’ (artist) is far greater, more entertaining and supremely significant than a writing written for a literary purpose. Its embedded purpose will be that of serving the ‘humanity’ (the human essence) and not a bunch of readers who might find someone’s writings excellent for their petty ‘personal estimation’[1]. Yes this may sound ironical that literary writings should not have a literary purpose, but it is true, because a masterpiece becomes a masterpiece when it reaches the ‘humane’ core, and it will definitely reach there if it comes from the same place. Well, God never created this Universe to be appreciated. Then why an artist should? The appreciative acceptance comes naturally by the way, and by this acceptance a writer too comes closer to the Truths about himself. Art after all is an extended expression of the spirit- the beauty of a being that illuminates all and magnifies their beauty as well. Therefore, let us first write, and be a writer later, if that is so necessary.

 

Here I must pin something I wrote before, and though then I talked particularly of poets, my opinion about the writers working on any genre of literature (or any form of art) is same:

This has become an age of ‘neo-classical post-modernism’, with lots of description (which was a classical trend) essentially meaning nothing, signifying nothing, and feeding a sensitive mind, eager to read some genuine ‘poetry’, with Nothing. Unassociated images. Incoherent lines. The monarchy of ‘Surrealistic Voodoo-Realism’. These are all today’s trend. Today poets have taken refuge under the shelter of incompetent semi-literate readers, entertaining them like fools of a cheap carnival. You have words and you have a pair of eyes! Thou hast become a poet! Now write whatever you want. The readers will find beauty even in the craps you will write. Probably Eliot here meant the poets when he made the London typist say- “I can connect nothing with nothing.” I believe, and with which a majority will probably disagree, that genuine poetry is impossible without intellectually and spiritually vigorous a mind, a mind that is excessively sensitive and reflective, a mind that is able not only to understand the philosophies of life and existence but also to see them in almost geometrical clarity, feel them and dance with them in ecstatic joy. A poet of such propensity thus will be able to see all the philosophies not revolving around their particular functions, but with an unclouded and unbiased mind, will see them all functioning and working together towards The Supreme Beauty and the Supreme Truth. A poet after all is not a composer of beautiful lines only, but is a harbinger of Truth and is a bearer of Beauty, pure and divine. A poet is not a puppeteer who must make his dolls dance in such a definite way so that the audience may laugh or applaud. Poets are “only the interpreters of the Gods by whom they are severally possessed.”[2]

 

All this being said, I would like to add that of course there is a need for shaping or fashioning a writing for readers after being written. But that too consists only of proof-reading and re-modeling sentence structures, maybe also of increasing the clarity or making a write-up presentably coherent. But choosing a specific subject matter, re-considering a belief for readers or writing something in a definite style because readers like it are absolutely out of question.

 

 

[1] Matthew Arnold, The Study of Poetry.

 

[2] Plato, Ion

 

A Tragedy Named Shakespeare


A Tragedy Named Shakespeare
Hisham M Nazer
9th June, 2012

Each name is a nemesis for the spirits
That stumble into the stage, life unrehearsed,
And end performing unknowingly
In the drama of death,
Lamenting for the name that is lost.
You asked- “What’s in a name?
Well, in name alone there is the tragedy of loss—
The loss of a name conceived.

When the curtain falls,
Where’s that mad Macbeth and his fear?
And king Lear? Humphrey daughters, stinkards,
Nibble on noble quinces behind the cushions,
And chastise the old man,
Behind the old man,
Forgetting the role before his role.
Hamlet walks with Hamnet
Through the Elizabethan towns
Winking at girls in rough gowns and corsets,
Talking about love and bets.
Lancelot is sober with a bottle of ale,
Bent and grave before the graves of flowing faces,
Hard as rock, and Shylock-
Sullen in the scullery counting cabbages.
All who were names for a while
Are undone, the magic’s gone
And all who were brave in the stage-strife
Now crawl in the amphitheatre of battered life!

Tragedy is an empty stage,
Left alone when the craze of comedy ends,
With clapping hands and musical bands,
With rats rolling the empty bottles
Left by the tipplers crowding the taverns.
The actors are gone, the props lie scattered
And shattered is the dark upon the stage,
Acting the role of a night.
And the brave fight ends that frightens
The devils asleep,
And lulls the angels in a slumber
Divine and deep.
Fiction becomes life, life fiction,
And everyone’s a name,
Behind a name, and before.
Shakespeare’s a name: a tragedy left behind,
For the spirit who’s not Shakespeare anymore.