Alchemy was a pretty crazy idea back when it was happening, the neighbors thought it strange and gave wide berth. Here is a man, presumedly with long suffering wife, who instead of earning daily bread spends all his time in his ‘laboratory’ trying to convert common pot metal into gold, so stupid. It isn’t going to work, atomic scientists agree the conversion isn’t possible, doomed to futility. Everybody sees it, and sometimes he suspects himself, but he goes there everyday anyway.
He probably has a different definition of gold, and sees his operation as partially successful, close to the breakthrough, on the verge of justifying all the time and effort, the frugality, the weird looks in the street and the profound distance of neighbors. Oh it would be gratifying in its way to pull up one day in a long shiny car, toss around a little cash, do a grand ‘told you so’ tour, but that isn’t what drives him, such a dreary revenge. It’s beginning to seem this person, the alchemist, just likes the process, enjoys the challenge, wants to face the impossible -- Ahab without the ocean, hardheaded.
Creating something of value from common material is just called industry in this age of the world, and the crucible of competition mandates efficiency, streamlines production, and squeezes the maximum value from every ton of ore, every truckload of corn. Machines are great and technology is awesome, but the greatest conversion of nothing into something is still done by hand. It’s called painting. Canvas and paint are definitely not high-tech, totally common, and have been in use all the way back to the first people we call human, pot metal for sure. In the studio the artist attempts to raise their value by an astronomical percentage, enough ideally to provide a modest living, buy new canvas and paint, and pay rent on the studio.
It wouldn’t be possible at most other times in history, and it’s a privilege in this one. With a year or two here and there for hourly wages, and occasional help from the state, unemployment comp and worker subsidies, the independent artist skates by with a low heat lifestyle, cheap rent and homemade recreation. Hold out as long as possible, don’t waste a dab of paint or an inch of canvas, and possibly find a bridge, the kindly millionaire patron you accidentally bump into, the big city dealer visiting a sister who sees a fast buck. Mostly alchemy is a long slog, doing the same rituals every morning while results move geologic, going backward part of the time, and nodding to the neighbors, smiling at in-laws.
The artist hopes to call out similar personalities, to impinge on related points of view, and to include as many as want to come along, anyone willing to ‘see‘ what they’ve painted. It’s a quest for a bead of gold in the bottom of the cup, for a value much greater than seems possible from simple stuff.
He probably has a different definition of gold, and sees his operation as partially successful, close to the breakthrough, on the verge of justifying all the time and effort, the frugality, the weird looks in the street and the profound distance of neighbors. Oh it would be gratifying in its way to pull up one day in a long shiny car, toss around a little cash, do a grand ‘told you so’ tour, but that isn’t what drives him, such a dreary revenge. It’s beginning to seem this person, the alchemist, just likes the process, enjoys the challenge, wants to face the impossible -- Ahab without the ocean, hardheaded.
Creating something of value from common material is just called industry in this age of the world, and the crucible of competition mandates efficiency, streamlines production, and squeezes the maximum value from every ton of ore, every truckload of corn. Machines are great and technology is awesome, but the greatest conversion of nothing into something is still done by hand. It’s called painting. Canvas and paint are definitely not high-tech, totally common, and have been in use all the way back to the first people we call human, pot metal for sure. In the studio the artist attempts to raise their value by an astronomical percentage, enough ideally to provide a modest living, buy new canvas and paint, and pay rent on the studio.
It wouldn’t be possible at most other times in history, and it’s a privilege in this one. With a year or two here and there for hourly wages, and occasional help from the state, unemployment comp and worker subsidies, the independent artist skates by with a low heat lifestyle, cheap rent and homemade recreation. Hold out as long as possible, don’t waste a dab of paint or an inch of canvas, and possibly find a bridge, the kindly millionaire patron you accidentally bump into, the big city dealer visiting a sister who sees a fast buck. Mostly alchemy is a long slog, doing the same rituals every morning while results move geologic, going backward part of the time, and nodding to the neighbors, smiling at in-laws.
The artist hopes to call out similar personalities, to impinge on related points of view, and to include as many as want to come along, anyone willing to ‘see‘ what they’ve painted. It’s a quest for a bead of gold in the bottom of the cup, for a value much greater than seems possible from simple stuff.
1 comment:
Resonates! Well said.
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