Circularity.

Og hér ert þú, Glósóli.  And now you’re here, Glowing soul.  There is this thing at the core and a light tearing at my insides—and this is that which I call mine.  Above all things, know thyself.  Know thyself.  Life is a constant climb and struggle to hold the word “I”, while only even just beginning to wrap fingers around what all that means.  The artist is he who understands this clawing within him and embraces the process of releasing, remembering, and retaining all that he is.  Circulation of work must begin with the self, with the constant shifting, ever-growing body of thoughts and ideas suspended in the vessel.

To jump immediately into the public’s eye is suicide, as man is but a beginner in everything.  An amateur.  A fledgling.  He must first gather his wits about him and venture into that which makes him; he himself must discover the truths housed within the beautifully synchronized entanglement of chemicals and matter.  This sphere into which he enters in order to pursue requires much, asks more.  Solitude asks the very questions one can neither form nor answer.  But the artist ought to have no fear.

“I want to beg you, as much as I can, dear sir, to be patient towards all that is unsolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

Everything changes in every single way it can, and that holds especially true to one’s perception of the core.  It is the self that remains untouched and consciousness that grows in fullness.  Gradually, eyes are open to that surging thing within and man might begin to suspect his strength— to know the power of his voice, the invincibility of his memory, and the beauty of his ideas.  Once some time has been spent in introspection, as he continues to blossom and ripen in understanding, the creator may take steps in direction of the world.

The world, though, does not want him to succeed.  It seeks to destroy him, for the man who stands alone—the artist, the thinking individual—does not belong in the world as it is but is a being from the world as it should be.  The trappings of reality, however, hold him to this earth and so he embarks on the constant battle to remain himself.  The interconnectivity of everything demands that he live and react with all else, and the clawing thing at his center begs him to display that which resides within.  He never is to give away any piece of himself nor tell his secret of being; he is only to show—to participate in the flow of life and not be consumed by the masses.  His branches stretch out to mankind, just as his roots extend in self-knowledge.  He offers that much more of humanity—and, in turn, comes to know its nature more clearly—in the act.  Art, anything to be called a creation not excepting the self, spreads humanity.

The ease of the travel, however, depends entirely on the notion of relational aesthetics, and this foundation rests on the principle that the audience is not an audience.  All are human beings.  Painstakingly, with each exchange of words and ideas—with each human relationship, the perfect form of humanity and the motion of the world come close to being understood.  The artists cannot compromise their work—or their core—for the sake of others.  They must present everything as it is, as they see it, and not as they think society perceives.  Truth, then, is never abandoned.  And the voice of humanity carries on.

But, with this invitation to “come and see”, criticism is welcomed.  And, in this, the artist must be resilient.  He should not edify walls around his supposed monument of beliefs, though; rather, his mind should serve as a filter and find the things that agree with the core and the thoughts that challenge him to seek still more and become that much more himself.  He must persist, accepting the constancy of change by allowing the words of others to enter his space.  His hands are the tools of change, his mind and core their master.  The beauty of ideas, so long as they are never abandoned, lies in their capacity to be shaped and grow into themselves.  They are as a cool block of marble, each thought-provoked chisel mark creating the eventual sculpture, which was always to be made.  Time.  It takes time.

The sculpture—the emerging ideas—is a product of connection and the precursor to networking.  Mankind is a vast sea of intertwining webs spanning continents and oceans.  Once this resource starts to be tapped into, the power of a single thought and its author is amplified. Individual people, as drops in the great bucket, may resound.  Collisions are not to be sought unless they spark some larger mechanism for conceptualizing humanity.  True, too much of a good thing is bad, but just enough of the terrible is desired.  Negativity leads to thirst, and failure to hunger.  Growth.

There ought to always be motion, though, with forward velocity.  Others should be sought and collected as precious treasure, for it is the brothers who help to uncover the hidden rooms within the vaults of the mind.  They help the artist to awaken the sleeping notyetformed ideas and give still another wealth:  memory.  Experience and exchanges excite newness and resonate with already existent thoughts.  From interactions with the rest of mankind, the artist is able to speak more clearly and more fully comprehend the words.  He might come to address humanity.