Sometimes I think that I spend 99 per cent of my life feeling disillusioned or just questioning my true interest in art. This is more like an over all whining which grinds on at the back of my mind behind the heavy curtains of conscious thought.
But there are moments like these, too:
Go through legions of these, and a stage by stage process takes place. First, I am awed. The sheer awesome power of art, especially something done by hand, knocks the breath out of me. That is the true miracle. Just the joy at looking at lines, and colour, and brush/pencil strokes, and finishes, well, it cannot be described. The genius of it is only to be felt. I admit that I don't find the renaissance stuff as awe inspiring nowadays as illustration done today, possibly because hand done illustration is once again such an oddity, and such a rare thing.
The second thing that happens, is that I want to do something as cool. write /draw things. Be active. Be creative. I think, "I can do that!" but then, I realize I don't have the originality. Whatever I do, will be aping what I just looked at and loved. And that again knocks the wind out of me once again, but for an entirely different reason.
The third and last stage that follows is that I want to kill myself. For not possessing the genius of the brush strokes, or story telling, or just plain ideas! If I am, at this point, in Bangalore, I send whatever I am looking at to my partner in suicidal tendencies, S. Then we moan. About our uselessness. Our need to be Awesome. And our complete and utter failure at it. And how we just don't have IDEAS. And then get into worse conversation about how we can acquire style, but the genius of having an idea is the main thing, which cannot be.
And then the circle is completed, and restarted.
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