I sometimes wonder if creative thought isn’t just the anarchism of our synapses; and, by nurture or nature, works of art are the ad hoc quelling of neural insurrections. In that sense, art could be seen as the product of personal fascist juntas which we allow to beat insurgent imaginations into the warp and weft of canvas, or regiment emotions into marks at risk of universal misunderstanding, or decode dissonance tight to a staff, or toss bodies gently in the wake of a whale’s dancing tail. They then leave us adrift: supine in a short, bright, cold silence, which we adore but know will kill us if we linger. Perhaps, to sleep, we shoot these little dictators, and raise new insurrections in our dreams.
Oct. 25, 2012