Maddening

There is something so beautifully tragic about artists.  No, not something - everything.  Their pain is so well depicted in their art that can be universally connected to by everyone, yet no one notices that horrible elegance until it's too late.  This thought hypnotizes me.

I've spent the past two days watching art films.  From Basquiat, to Pollock, to Factory Girl, Frida, and Little Ashes; everything in between.  I can't get enough.  It's my addiction.  The fact that many artists discredit their own art to be mediocre may be crazy - in our time we study their pieces in classes, we call it brilliance.  Genius.  Maddening beauty.  It is such a shame that these revolutionaries didn't see the raw talent that they had at their fingertips - but if they did, would they not be the artists they were?

The term starving artist is quite enchanting, due to this fact.  You cannot get anywhere in art without developing your own mind.  Fighting your own demons, and even sometimes letting them overcome you.  That struggle is what makes these brilliant people connect with the entirety of earth.  They channel raw emotion into what they create without any second thought - it's the universal truth to them.  They have that unbridled confidence in the inner trappings of their own mind.  Is that what all of us wish to do?  Is that why we connect with these works of art that are most often barely noticed during their age?  Is that why some people call this unadulterated madness - because they can't connect to that primal self that's within each and every one of us?

Something to think about.