Art. What is it? I know, how many more people are going to try and answer their question. Well, count me as another individual throwin his own interpretation of it in the mix. Take it, or leave it.

Really though, what is it? We all have a lens that comes with its own unique specifications, forged and polished through the journey from our conception through to the steps and sways our life’s experiences have danced with us. Our culture, upbringing, biological makeup, learned or innate disposition, or whatever other influences one might choose to include, have all added up to construct the frame and filters we view and interpret our surroundings through. It’s been spoken to death, the idea that you ask ten people what they see in a flower, for example, and you’ll get ten different answers. It’s fuckin true though, and it’s fascinating.

What brought me to bring this topic up today, was an interesting encounter on social media sparked from my last piece of work (the image you see above these words). There was a reaction that I quite honestly hadn’t even considered to manifest. Yet there it was. The interesting thing is that while my initial reaction to seeing it was laughter, it had come to my realisation that I had actually forgotten once having a similar point of view. The reaction from social media that I had seen was mention of this piece as being NSFW (not safe for work), amongst other things, or an overall sense of distaste. Mind you, there was also positive response as well, but of course, the negative kept me thinking.

I say that I “remember” having a similar point of view for one main reason. I definitely did, in my youth. This was a time where my perspective was calibrated mainly by my peers and the social environment of my culture in that time. Whether this was high school, or otherwise. During this period in my growth, I was almost limited to the ideals and expectations of those I surrounded myself with. I’ve always prided myself on being the type to “do their own thing”, but I can’t deny that in an attempt to navigate the naive landscape of peer pressure and social awkwardness, I complied. I was then lucky enough to have chosen to go to a college that none of my high school classmates had chosen to go to, and that allowed me the opportunity to purposefully shed myself of those silly constraints, and dive into whatever would come my way without preconceived views or expectations. My tastes changed, and they have continued to every year after that, all the way up until now, and I’ll be damned if I don’t continue to ensure that they do.

So that’s great, but how does this lead into the “meaning” of art? Well, I suppose to summarise my intent here, art is what YOU want it to be. And what YOU “want” it to be is entirely dependant on your experiences, affinities, and whatever else I had previously mentioned. It changes. It evolves. And no one, not a single one of us knows what in the fuck we’re talking about. At least, when attempting to speak for anyone other than yourself. There’s nothin wrong with not knowing what we’re talking about either. How are we supposed to? We’re alive for maybe 80 years at a time IF we’re lucky. We’re exposed to a quantum-pixel of maybe one frame of an aspect of the universe we have the inevitably fleeting priveledge to experience. We’re not even babies. We’re moments. A drop of rain in an endless ocean of time and space.

Art is individual.

Every now and again I get a question regarding what inspires me, or where I get my ideas from. I wish I had a good answer, but I don’t. Half of the time I’m trying to come up with the next “great” concept, and fail miserably. The interesting thing about it all, is when I don’t bother trying too hard anymore. In that last ditch moment something will come to me and I’ll ride it for dear life. This next bit might seem like an extreme detour, but bear with me, it’ll make sense, I promise.

I suck at bowling.

Like, bad. But I’m competitive, so at first, I really give a shit. I’ll come up with strategies, adjust them accordingly, but for some reason, the more I care, the worse I do. Usually, this happens with a group of friends, and other random people around us who definitely seem to know what they’re doing. Super fun. I stand there eating shit, and it’s painfully inescapable. Suddenly, I’ll shift from “TODAY IS THE DAY”, to “…eh….fuck it…”. Pick up the ball, skip the mental measuring, the adjusting of angles on approach, or any amount of will to make the goddamn ball hit any of the pins. Swing..release... STRIKE!

This exact thing seems to repeat itself mercilessly in many other aspects of my life. It continues to seem that the less I try, the better I do. Being that this occurs so frequently, I’ve had many opportunities to attempt at quantifying this experience. It’s still a mystery, but I gather that in the attempt in achieving “perfection”, I consume myself with the false premise and expectation that this single effort will be the one that outshines all of the rest. Even now while writing this, I have to shake the reflex to micromanage my phraseology, or conceptual pathways in order to allow the heart of this post to present itself.

Stop overthinking. Stop overthinking. For the love of god, stop overthinking.

I’m saying this for myself, just as much as I am for you. Ideas, in my mind, are free flowing. In some way, it’s almost as if they exist already within us, and once in a blue, we tune to the right frequency to catch a clear signal of it to jot down before it fades away. If we’re lucky. Sure, there are ways to almost guarantee a good idea. there are basic principles, processes, tricks, hacks you can try in order to have better odds at that next great piece. They all have their place, but more important than anything, is that you keep trying. Try. Fail. Try again. Fail again. Try better. Fail better.

Where do your ideas come from?