What’s real? That’s something we really don’t know because all we have are our perceptions, and they’re pretty malleable, easily altered by preconceptions and individual prejudices. Not only that, memory turns out to be selective and morphs with time, and in this soup of sensation we call daily life mostly we’d just like a little agreement from others around, some verification of what we see. All we want is some truth, a version we at least recognize, and it isn’t always easy.
Comprehension of the world is some function of past experience, a compilation and sorting out, but basically limited by everything we’ve seen and felt so far. The senses are fresh and wide open when we arrive, but it’s all input with no way to discern even where we are. We cry a lot. Slowly, by putting stuff in our mouth, bumping our toes and being scratched by grandpa’s beard, we begin to make sense of the mess. Human history is quick to point out there are more than a few ways to do this, and we’re likely to begin with the template available at the time from our clan, tribe, or nationality. Did spectral demons from another dimension preside from the top of pyramids during blood ceremonies in mexico before the conquest? Did Jesus demand that heretics be burned at the stake, can humans shape-change into different animals, do ancestors influence our lives -- some have thought so and that’s the world they saw, and the world they lived in.
It’s a pretty mechanical business. We’re hard wired to run almost any software available, and accept any reality we’re given. There are few ports for individual entry, and not many opportunities to alter or rewrite, so we wind up prisoners of our own histories, limited to only see and comprehend what we’ve seen before. Where are the levers found, who has keys to the control room -- there’s got to be some way out of here. A word of caution: if you desire to broaden your perceptual net and add depth and texture to your daily reality, don’t go scrolling on the internet. It won’t be helpful, since to a large extent it's a large part of the problem.
Consider art instead, a solid-state psychic generator for your wall. Art is a hand-hold on a slippery cliff-face, a paddle for our drifting canoe, the practical device that little by little cleanses the eyes and renews the ability to process the wealth of visual information, and the range of possibilities, that continually comes our way. On the first level, the artist’s optimum effort for the week it took to make it represents a unique and singular gesture in our tech-driven, drive-thru culture. Over time, the work of art becomes the only enduring presence as everything else, clothes, furniture, and cars, morph and change. Beyond that, if the artist requires you to supply what’s been left unsaid, each time it’s seen your attention will be triggered, becoming more alert and receptive, and eventually you’ll find yourself noticing more generally, the color of the evening sky, the fountain in the park.
If this sounds farfetched, don’t take my word, just follow my suggestion. Spend an afternoon with some original landscape paintings by committed artists, bound to be available locally, and then take a drive in the country. Luckily for the device dependent media-savvy urbanite, the effect will be even more pronounced. The detail and texture of visual experience will be substantially enhanced, almost startling, as when crimped antennae begin to unfold. What’s real will always be open to question, but art in the house helps us see and process more of what shows.
* * *
Your aunt’s old silver tomato slice server has a collector value, I saw the estimate on TV. Anything, it seems, can have a collector value so long as the supply is limited, and its scarcity has been certified. Nothing wrong with collecting, but valuing art by how much someone else might be willing to pay for it can yield pretty ugly. A serious person instead buys the art their older selves would like to own, and spends pro-rated for all those years.
Comprehension of the world is some function of past experience, a compilation and sorting out, but basically limited by everything we’ve seen and felt so far. The senses are fresh and wide open when we arrive, but it’s all input with no way to discern even where we are. We cry a lot. Slowly, by putting stuff in our mouth, bumping our toes and being scratched by grandpa’s beard, we begin to make sense of the mess. Human history is quick to point out there are more than a few ways to do this, and we’re likely to begin with the template available at the time from our clan, tribe, or nationality. Did spectral demons from another dimension preside from the top of pyramids during blood ceremonies in mexico before the conquest? Did Jesus demand that heretics be burned at the stake, can humans shape-change into different animals, do ancestors influence our lives -- some have thought so and that’s the world they saw, and the world they lived in.
It’s a pretty mechanical business. We’re hard wired to run almost any software available, and accept any reality we’re given. There are few ports for individual entry, and not many opportunities to alter or rewrite, so we wind up prisoners of our own histories, limited to only see and comprehend what we’ve seen before. Where are the levers found, who has keys to the control room -- there’s got to be some way out of here. A word of caution: if you desire to broaden your perceptual net and add depth and texture to your daily reality, don’t go scrolling on the internet. It won’t be helpful, since to a large extent it's a large part of the problem.
Consider art instead, a solid-state psychic generator for your wall. Art is a hand-hold on a slippery cliff-face, a paddle for our drifting canoe, the practical device that little by little cleanses the eyes and renews the ability to process the wealth of visual information, and the range of possibilities, that continually comes our way. On the first level, the artist’s optimum effort for the week it took to make it represents a unique and singular gesture in our tech-driven, drive-thru culture. Over time, the work of art becomes the only enduring presence as everything else, clothes, furniture, and cars, morph and change. Beyond that, if the artist requires you to supply what’s been left unsaid, each time it’s seen your attention will be triggered, becoming more alert and receptive, and eventually you’ll find yourself noticing more generally, the color of the evening sky, the fountain in the park.
If this sounds farfetched, don’t take my word, just follow my suggestion. Spend an afternoon with some original landscape paintings by committed artists, bound to be available locally, and then take a drive in the country. Luckily for the device dependent media-savvy urbanite, the effect will be even more pronounced. The detail and texture of visual experience will be substantially enhanced, almost startling, as when crimped antennae begin to unfold. What’s real will always be open to question, but art in the house helps us see and process more of what shows.
* * *
Your aunt’s old silver tomato slice server has a collector value, I saw the estimate on TV. Anything, it seems, can have a collector value so long as the supply is limited, and its scarcity has been certified. Nothing wrong with collecting, but valuing art by how much someone else might be willing to pay for it can yield pretty ugly. A serious person instead buys the art their older selves would like to own, and spends pro-rated for all those years.
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