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Birth of an Artist

February 27, 2014

You Know the story

There was this boy, a happy boy, who spent most of his time alone with his thoughts for company as well as a cat always at his side. He took his loving family for granted and was able to enjoy the simplicity of just being and although people thought he was a little different, he didn’t care because he was happy, alone with his own little soul. He felt connected to his planet, awe-struck by the infinity of space and was in love with the beauty of his world. To others he appeared dreamy and could always be seen smiling enjoying his interactions with fellow beings, quite oblivious to the different horizons they were looking to. The sheer joy of being and the security of a devoted family, gave him the strength to be just the way he was. It was his right after all and he valued and defended this right to live his life the way he saw fit.

To him the point of being was really that simple, nothing to prove but a life to live celebrating his most treasured gift, his consciousness, an unfathomable splendour. By the age of 16 he found a way to express and celebrate his life, through sculpture and his exploration of the beauty of being began. Shaping the clay from the earth he felt the timeless connection to the earth and produced work like votive offerings, tokens of thanks and celebrations for the beautiful gift of life. The magic of art captivated his spirit and held him under its spell and in one sense he never really grew up, well not in a conventional sense. He held on to his child like wonderment of life tuned into a deep sensitivity that allowed him to travel far into the depths of his existence.

But as the years past by the pressures were growing on him as he was forced into the bear pit, where his survival depended on the marketing of his work and he was at the mercy of others. So he was fed to the wolves and thrown into the great mechanism of a brutal society that cared little for the soul of an ordinary boy. However he was strong, with a cast iron will and outwardly his demeanour and wit shielded the delicate form his humanity had assumed. But surviving as an artist was difficult and the exposure caused him to withdraw more and more into himself. He shared his story through his art but  became an enigma to many and though only a few people seemed to understand his ways, many related to his work because it embodied a truthful sincerity based on a deep need for integrity.

Eventually he found success only to be cut down by the untimely deaths of his family, through brutality and natural causes, tested to the limit he was all but destroyed  and in many ways left for dead as an artist, a lost cause, viewed as an unreliable harbinger of doom. The system let this man down because the collective consciousness of a nation forgot about the true value of art, a value which has nothing to do with money, nut a lot to do with the well-being of society. Now he was left unable to perform for those who expected and cast out, unable to understand why the society he lived in sought to channel the beautiful mind into something so ordinary and why the art he loved so much could be used against him. For years he knew only despair and somehow managed to keep it together but only just, a constant weight on his shoulders and a life slowly falling into ruin as his passion for life was slowly crushed. Now he could feel the force and fate that awaits the fallen and the instinct of the ferocious pack who come in for the kill, the rise of the bullies who vent their shameless ways on the wounded.

He was cornered and left with one option, which was to rise from the depths of despair, armed only with a faint memory of a vision he once had and the warmth of the beautiful memories of his absent family . A dull and distant glimmer of light that shone just enough light to guide him out of the darkness that had consumed his very soul. It was a constant battle  because life had chewed him up and torn him to pieces, his vision lay dead and he had nowhere to turn all he could do was survive and look inside to find a reason for being. A reason to live and make art, it was not about happiness and love, more survival in a life that appeared ever more abstract with its conventions and pretence, he wondered if he could ever fit  into the system now that his eyes had been opened. His struggle was epic and he fell under the guide of his instinct, first the deconstruction of self through his work allowed him to see more of himself and some of his truths, but his wounds were so deep that they could not be healed. But he did rise and produced work beyond his wildest imagination and reached depths of expression that moved him dramatically and lifted him to a new level, a level that connected to the core of his being and the distant memories of the boy within. He also became deeply aware of the spiritual and sacred aspects of being and how if he allowed help would come his way if he truly listened and found  a deep faith and belief in life.

It could be said he experienced a metamorphosis but the punishment life had thrown at him for being himself left a mark and his petulant nature could be seen in his new mantra, a message to the establishment and those that scarred his being and that was “Fuck Off, You Fucking Fuckers” and by God he meant it. This new way of being allowed him to move at an astonishing rate with his work on a conceptual level, it was without compromise and carried out regardless of the effect it had on people’s perception of him. He had found himself, the hardest way imaginable and would not let go, he had a mission, a mission to make a mark, out of respect for his fallen family and bring dignity by setting an example. To show that life is important and something to value, not to take for granted, he felt able to express himself and deserved to be heard and dignified for his contributions as much as anyone else.

Now he works with a renewed freedom, he says if people like what he does, “good” and if people hate what he does he says “good” because he knows life is not about a search for sycophants or a feast for oppressors, it’s about having the courage to try to make a difference, through honesty and integrity. He see’s his life not as a performance but as a statement of being and only now does he see fit to call himself an artist. An artist born out of adversity from a brutal conflict within that led to a redefining of art within his psyche, he had one option to find himself and that could only be done through an open and honest search. He’d seen a futility of life through death and found a path to a meaningful expression and celebration of the gift that life truly is.

He feels the world may be hostile to artists who make sincere art as a gesture or expression, but he will not let go of his vision in exchange for  currency or shallow rewards, because life and art is simply too important to be bastardised by greedy bastards that seek to control.  He works now with a vision, regardless of outcome because he feel the very gesture and notion of art is profoundly important to the whole of society and society as a whole. His life may be just another sacrifice but at least he feels he has an honourable cause, the courage to stand up and express himself freely in a lonely life, warmed only by the knowledge that he was true to himself. He really has nothing to prove but chooses to offer his vision freely and without compromise. There are no strings attached and it’s not a game, his art is just an open exploration of our mystery, being and his interpretation of our shared journey.

There are big ways of living and there are small ways of living, choosing the right path is crucial if you want to truly live.

 

ARTY FUCKER

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