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Αποστολέας Θέμα: Οταν η τέχνη συναντά το σεντόνι(εφαπλωματοποιών το ανάγνωσμα)  (Αναγνώστηκε 13384 φορές)

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Απ: Οταν η τέχνη συναντά το σεντόνι(εφαπλωματοποιών το ανάγνωσμα)
« Απάντηση #75 στις: Νοέμβριος 01, 2012, 04:50:09 μμ »
Εχθές έσβησα ίσα με 30 σπαμ εδώ μεσα. Αγαπητέ Zor αρχισπάμερ  :mad:

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Απ: Οταν η τέχνη συναντά το σεντόνι(εφαπλωματοποιών το ανάγνωσμα)
« Απάντηση #76 στις: Νοέμβριος 01, 2012, 05:12:50 μμ »
 :hehe:


τι να κάνω ρε Βαις....που μου αρέσει το άτιμο.....ειδικά όταν είναι με μπόλικο σκορδάκι!



Παναγιώτη μου (και Αξιζούληχτο Ινδαλμα του ποιητή Φανφάρα :hehe: )


Δεν ξέρω τι εντύπωση δίνω απο τα γραφόμενά μου αλλα πιστέψτε με...δεν προσπαθώ να πείσω κανέναν για τίποτα...

Απλώς μεταφέρω γνώσεις και εμπειρίες και τις πασπαλίζω με προσωπικές απόψεις (όσο και όπου μπορώ και έχω)

Δεν έχω καμιά πρεμούρα προσωπική να εκτιμήσει κανείς τον David Shrigley που τις ζωγραφιές του τις κάνει και ένα παιδί  εκ πρώτης - μάλιστα, φυσικά και τις κανει....ας δει όμως κανεις το Brain activity του Λονδίνου και το συζητάμε μετά...η τον Adrian Piper, η τους Gilbert and George η εκατοντάδες άλλους...


(και ξέρετε πόσο αγαπώ και εκτιμώ τους μεγάλους κλασσικούς η τους μοντερνιστές ....)


Έχω την εντύπωση πως υπάρχει ενδιαφέρον στο θέμα και γίνεται και υπέροχη συζήτηση με ανταλλαγή απόψεων και χιούμορ οπότε και συμβάλλω κι εγώ μιας και αποτελεί ένα απο τα προσωπικά μου ενδιαφέροντα....(αν σας κούρασα ζητώ συγνώμη  :shame:)





Σχεδόν συμφωνούμε όπως λέει και ο φίλτατος Παναγιώτης...



εκτός...

"Δεν αναζητήθηκε ποτε στα σοβαρα γιατι δεν χρειαστηκε, απλα λειτουργούσε..." (σημ. ο ορισμός της τέχνης)


και τόσες χιλιάδες δέντρα σε βιβλία και τόνοι μελανιού που χύθηκαν προσπαθώντας να το ορίσουν η να το διατυπώσουν (άστοχα η εύστοχα), προς τι?? 


Επίσης (ψιλο)διαφωνώ στο ότι οτισδήποτε αφορά την σύγχρονη τέχνη έχει να κανει με το χρήμα...

Αντιθέτως πιστέυω πως ποτέ ξανα δεν υπήρξε τέτοια έξαρση καλλιτεχνική και τόσοι άνθρωποι να συμμετέχουν ενεργά σε αυτήν χωρίς να εμπλέκονται οικονομικά πουθενά αλλα να το κάνουν απλα και μόνο από προσωπικό ενδιαφέρον και αγάπη για την τέχνη και την δυνατότητα έκφρασης (και δη εναλλακτικής) που τους προσφέρει...

(Και μην το μπλέκουμε παιδιά με το εμπόριο (η παρά - εμπόριο) τέχνης που αφορά έργα παλαιοτέρων χρόνων η αρχαίων αντικειμένων......για τη σύγχρονη τέχνη μιλάμε εδώ)


Παράδειγμα...δείτε πόσοι άνθρωποι ασχολούνται με τη φωτογραφία τα τελευταία χρόνια (και μάλιστα με την καλλιτεχνική της πλευρά...επενδύοντας και σε χρόνο και σε χρήμα και εκφράζονται και ψάχνονται με εκπληκτικά αποτελέσματα απο το πρώτο κιόλας καθαρά ερασιτεχνικό στάδιο (που για τους περισσότερους παραμενει παντα ερασιτεχνικό γιατί αυτό έχουν ανάγκη στην τελική...να εκφραστούν και να μεταδόσουν....όταν καποιος τα μαζευει και παει σε μια ερημική παραλία και φωτογραζει βότσαλα ψάχνοντας στα βότσαλα, τη σύνθεση, την αρμονία, την ομορφιά της φύσης για να εκφραστεί και να μας το μεταφέρει δεν παράγει τέχνη εκείνη τη στιγμή?...δεν κανει κατι τεχνικά δύσκολο που να χρειαζεται να είσαι ο Βαν Αικ για να το καταφέρεις....κανει ομως κατι άλλο....."βλέπει", αποτυπώνει, συνθέτει, ψάχνει, καδράρει, δημιουργεί...είναι καλλιτέχνης και αυτός εφόσον το αποτέλεσμα ειναι προιον αναζήτησης και δημιουργίας!)...ωστόσο δεν πληρώνεται, ούτε πουλάει......

Αλλο παράδειγμα...αυριο έχω συνάντηση για να ενταχθώ σε μία δημιουργική creativa ομάδα των Αtenistaς.....πάω να προσφέρω τα χέρια μου και το μυαλό μου και ότι μέσα διαθέτω με σκοπό τη συμμετοχή σε μία ομαδική καλλιτεχνική δράση με κάποιον συγκεκριμένο σκοπό (όπως τότε που ζωγραφίσαμε τα κουτιά της ΔΕΗ και γέμισε χρώμα και ζωή το κέντρο μας)...αυτή δεν είναι ενέργεια που αφορά την σύγχρονη conceptual τέχνη (είναι conceptual) και η οποία δεν εμπεριέχει καμία οικονομική δραστηριότητα?


Εν ολίγοις, ποτέ άλλοτε, (το ξαναλέω και γίνοναι γραφικός ...το ξέρω), η τέχνη δεν μας αφορούσε τόσο άμεσα και τόσο στενά....και ποτέ άλλοτε ο μέσος άνθρωπος δεν ήταν τόσο στενά συνδεδεμένος με αυτήν....άμεση απεριοριστη πρόσβαση σε όλες τις μορφές της και δράση προσωπική.....διαδραστική, επικοινωνιακή, σκληρή μα αληθινή....


(Διαμαντή, αν ησουν μέσος άνθρωπος στης εποχή του Ρέμπραντ η του Μικελάτζελο, οχι δεν θα πηγαινες, θα εφευγες και θα ξαναπήγαινες εκεί που βρισκόταν το έργο, αλλα δεν θα είχες καν πρόσβαση  απο την αρχή σε αυτό.......μην κοιτάς που ηγνώση στην εποχή αμς μας εχει κανεις familiar με ολους αυτους τους μεγάλους καλλιτέχνες....τότε δεν τους ήξερε (και φυσικα χαιροταν το έργο τους) παρα ενας πολυ στενός, οικονομικά εύρωστος κύκλος ανθρώπων....η μάζα αγνοούσε και έβλεπεμόνο σε καμια εκκλησία και αυτο με σκοπο τον εντυπωσιασμό τους και το δέος μπροστά στη θεική υπόσταση)


Συνοψίζω...έχουμε διαφορετική προσεγγιση σε ότι αφορά την σύγχρονη τέχνη....αυτο δεν ειναι κακό....αντιθέτως! Ειναι ευκαιρία για ανταλαγή απόψεων με αξιόλογους φίλους και αξιόλογες "οπτικές γωνίες" έστω και διαφορετικές (και ειναι και απο τα αγαπημένα μου θέματα :bier:)


« Τελευταία τροποποίηση: Νοέμβριος 01, 2012, 05:17:28 μμ από VAS »
Όπως είχε πει ενας γνήσιος Guzzista πριν τον διώξει το καθεστώς : "Καιμε βενζίνη, οι υπόλοιποι καίνε το σάλιο τους!"

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Απ: Οταν η τέχνη συναντά το σεντόνι(εφαπλωματοποιών το ανάγνωσμα)
« Απάντηση #77 στις: Νοέμβριος 01, 2012, 05:37:22 μμ »
Εχθές έσβησα ίσα με 30 σπαμ εδώ μεσα. Αγαπητέ Zor αρχισπάμερ  : mad:

 :naughty2


εσβησες 30 και καλα εκανες,...αλλά να σβηνεις και τα traces,...που λεμε εμεις οι κομπιουτεραδες.  :hehe:

http://forum.motoguzziclub.gr/index.php/topic,6317.msg85394.html#msg85394


Η παραθεση του Αστραχαν στις προτροπες μου να μην σπαμαρουν....δεν υπαρχει.  :fff:

Απεναντιας,...τρωω κραξιμο απο Αστραχαν, Σποντ και Γκουτζονορντ, ....να μην "κουρευω", αλλά να διαχωρισω το θεμα με νεο τιτλο.

Πραγμα το οποιο και επραξα... "ότι τήδε είμεθα, τοις κείνων ρήμασι πειθόμενοι"

http://forum.motoguzziclub.gr/index.php/topic,6317.msg85408.html#msg85408


Ζοr. always has evidence.  :rasta:
Never ride faster than your guardian angel can fly

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Απ: Οταν η τέχνη συναντά το σεντόνι(εφαπλωματοποιών το ανάγνωσμα)
« Απάντηση #78 στις: Νοέμβριος 01, 2012, 08:38:16 μμ »
αυτο ηταν ευστοχο τριποντο και κερδισμενο εσκεμμενο φαουλ


 εκτελει συμπληρωματικα βολες ο ζορδαν

και εχει και την μπαλα ξανα για οργανωμενη επιθεση 24 δευτερολεπτων :hehe: :hehe:




μπορει να ειμαι τζικοτιστης αλλα η αληθεια να γραφεται :hehe:
γιαλαντζης  ντολμαδοπουλος του 2%

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Απ: Οταν η τέχνη συναντά το σεντόνι(εφαπλωματοποιών το ανάγνωσμα)
« Απάντηση #79 στις: Νοέμβριος 02, 2012, 09:32:13 πμ »
το γράφω στενάχωρα αυτό αλλά ο Ζορντάν έχει δίκιο...  :oops:  :hehe:


αυτό το θέμα ανοίχτηκε για να σπαμάρουμε ελεύθερα περί τέχνης ώστε να "καθαρίσει" το θέμα με τις φωτογραφίες...
ex...

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Απ: Οταν η τέχνη συναντά το σεντόνι(εφαπλωματοποιών το ανάγνωσμα)
« Απάντηση #80 στις: Νοέμβριος 02, 2012, 09:34:34 πμ »
:hehe:
τι να κάνω ρε Βαις....που μου αρέσει το άτιμο.....ειδικά όταν είναι με μπόλικο σκορδάκι!

μπλα, μπλα, μπλα...

Συνοψίζω...έχουμε διαφορετική προσεγγιση σε ότι αφορά την σύγχρονη τέχνη....αυτο δεν ειναι κακό....αντιθέτως! Ειναι ευκαιρία για ανταλαγή απόψεων με αξιόλογους φίλους και αξιόλογες "οπτικές γωνίες" έστω και διαφορετικές (και ειναι και απο τα αγαπημένα μου θέματα :bier:)



τώρα καλά τα λες... (για όλο το ποστ πάει αυτό...)
ex...

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Απ: Οταν η τέχνη συναντά το σεντόνι(εφαπλωματοποιών το ανάγνωσμα)
« Απάντηση #81 στις: Νοέμβριος 02, 2012, 06:59:43 μμ »
Άρχισα να σας χάνω... είμαι και λίγο άξεστος  :shame:
Όσο βελτιώνεται η τεχνολογία των μοτοσυκλετών (ηλεκτρονικά βοηθήματα), τόσο υποβαθμίζεται η τέχνη του αναβάτη.

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Απ: Οταν η τέχνη συναντά το σεντόνι(εφαπλωματοποιών το ανάγνωσμα)
« Απάντηση #82 στις: Νοέμβριος 02, 2012, 07:04:47 μμ »
Άρχισα να σας χάνω...



ρε.....3 μέρες γράφουμε και γράφουμε.....για κάτι το οποίο ΕΣΥ ξεκίνησες (μάλλον αναζοπύρωσες), και μας λες πως μας χάνεις??  :mad: :bhead




 :hehe: :bier:
Όπως είχε πει ενας γνήσιος Guzzista πριν τον διώξει το καθεστώς : "Καιμε βενζίνη, οι υπόλοιποι καίνε το σάλιο τους!"

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Απ: Οταν η τέχνη συναντά το σεντόνι(εφαπλωματοποιών το ανάγνωσμα)
« Απάντηση #83 στις: Νοέμβριος 03, 2012, 07:57:59 πμ »
Ε... αφού σας χάνω!!!!.... εγώ φταίω?
Όσο βελτιώνεται η τεχνολογία των μοτοσυκλετών (ηλεκτρονικά βοηθήματα), τόσο υποβαθμίζεται η τέχνη του αναβάτη.

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Απ: Οταν η τέχνη συναντά το σεντόνι(εφαπλωματοποιών το ανάγνωσμα)
« Απάντηση #84 στις: Νοέμβριος 03, 2012, 09:08:30 πμ »
Πάρτο απ την αρχη...
Εχει σεντονια ...ολοκληρη προικα για βλαχικο γαμο


Οχι οτι θα βγαλεις και τιποτα,
ολο τα ιδια και τα ιδια, με διαφορετικα παραδειγματα, λεμε... :hehe:
Θα με φάει η περιέργεια...
Τί είναι μετά την επόμενη στροφή?

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« Απάντηση #85 στις: Νοέμβριος 14, 2012, 11:38:13 πμ »
Πολύ ενδιαφέρον κείμενο για όσους την ψάχνουν ακόμα τη δουλειά.....


(να με συγχωρούν οι μη - αγγλομαθείς φίλοι...δεν εχω χρόνο ούτε διάθεση για μετάφραση.. :shame: :thumbsup:)




As a child, it had never occurred to me that I could choose to live my life as an artist. Various options had been presented to me – lawyer, doctor, teacher, scientist (none of which had seemed very appealing at the time) – but the possibility of “living with art” or “living through art” was not something that had ever been discussed in my family as a possible option. To be perfectly honest, in the working class neighborhood in which I had grown up, art was not discussed at all. It was a subject that was left up to those who knew about such things. My friends and I, who struggled against fits of utter boredom to color within the lines and to connect-the-dots in a half-hearted effort to comply with our teachers’ unimaginative instructions, were not acquainted with any of these learned people.

I thought, at the time, that artists belonged to a special class of people who smoked fancy cigarettes, drank copious amounts of black coffee, and wore French berets, striped sailor tops, and black scarves. Or were those people writers? I could never really tell. I had never seen an artist or spoken with an artist – or so I had thought at the time. I imagined that artists were incredibly sophisticated, highly-educated, politically engaged individuals who moved in select circles, far far away from the tiny urban community that my friends and I called home. To aspire to become an artist was something akin to reaching for the stars in a smoky Parisian sky, barely perceptible, hardly possible, a pretentious and ridiculous dream for kids who had never before left the very confines of their city.

It had never occurred to me at the time that artists labored all around me in the basements of their homes – “regular” people just like my parents, who - during the day - worked at the local hospital, school, government office, or in any one of a handful of dilapidated bakeries and shops that lined the main street of our city. I had never met any of these artists. It was only after I became an adult that I developed a basic understanding of the “collective consciousness of art” – that art is created by individuals in all walks of life, in all parts of the world, in all economic classes, in a multitude of different ways, drawing on every conceivable material that the earth and our human-made society have to offer. With this understanding came the knowledge that I had been surrounded by artists all my life, and that although I did not know it at the time, these artists had found a way – intentionally or unintentionally – to express the emotional zeitgeist of our generation, of our city, and of our tiny urban community.

Like all children of my generation, my friends and I were inculcated in the tradition of deference to authority and rote memorization that had become the basis of public education at the time. In preparation for a career or a job in an increasingly post-industrial world, we were asked to demonstrate respect for our teachers, to complete tasks efficiently, to behave in accordance with an acceptable set of rules, to learn the lessons that were placed before us, and to “fill in the blanks” when required to do so. In other words, there was little room left for creativity, for coloring “outside of the lines” so to speak, to make mistakes, to think critically, to question authority, to aggressively seek out one’s place in the world as sensitive, thinking, feeling, highly-imaginative and emotional human beings.

This was a time when daring to color outside of the lines earned a swift docking of marks from an annoyed primary teacher who would ensure that your work was not proudly displayed in the company of those who assiduously and efficiently completed their assigned tasks. Coloring outside the lines was clearly “erroneous” and your teacher would make a point of displaying (or hiding) your indiscretion (and your failing grade) as a cautionary tale to your classmates about the consequences of not falling in line with what was considered “acceptable.”

As a young child, I was not one to break the rules. In fact, I took particular pride in earning high marks, basking in the praise of my instructors who took a liking to me because I took it upon myself to follow their instructions with such deference, completing my assigned tasks with a good deal of enthusiasm and efficiency. It did not take me long to figure out that “coloring outside the lines” or “thinking outside the box” was not only inacceptable; it was basically a crime.

Of course, there was a certain amount of “flexibility” that was considered acceptable, even laudable and desirable. My girlfriend at the time, Sylvie, was very prolific at tracing out the outlines of the butterfly, the house, the Easter Bunny, or the Santa Clause on the otherwise blank white pages that we were asked to color in. She made sure to press her pencil crayons firmly into the paper to create dark green or blue or red outlines of the hollow illustrations, and then to fill them out with soft, even strokes of a paler shade of the same color. The teacher made a point of letting us know that Sylvie’s coloring feats were particularly magnificent, smiling and beaming at her accomplishments, while the rest of us cowered at our desks to cover our lowly expressions of “acceptable” creativity.

As I grew older, it became clear to me that art was not meant for the likes of myself. Sylvie, who had obviously mastered the art of coloring, also drew highly-precise and beautiful vignettes of caricature mice eating cheese, reading books, having birthday parties, and holding balloons. My classmates and I agreed that ONLY Sylvie should be allowed to “do art.” If there was a project at school that required illustration or any kind of inspired design, it was assumed that Sylvie would be the one “burdened or privileged” with the task – depending on who you were and how you looked at it.

The rest of us were generally considered substandard in our artistic accomplishments and as such were quickly discouraged from pursuing art any further. Some kids were encouraged to pursue math or science, because they seemed particularly good at calculations or exceptionally proficient in the laboratory. Others, bookworms like myself, were encouraged to pursue language arts and social studies. Still others – those who could not sit still in class - were encouraged to participate further in sports and athletic programs. Of all of my classmates, I believe that only Sylvie ever felt that art would continue to remain an important part of her life.

Needless to say, I was quick to absolve myself of the responsibility of connecting the dots and coloring between the lines as quickly as possible. I found it boring and meaningless, to begin with, and the teachers made it clear as we got older, that these assignments were optional for those of us who had academic careers ahead of us. Even for those for whom these tasks were not optional, it was pretty clear that the teachers used these assignments to keep us busy and quiet at the end of the day. I felt, at the time, that although I felt a tremendous need to express myself creatively, my lot had been cast and that I had no choice but to accept that art was not something that I need bother myself with. It was, as if to confirm my many misconceptions about art at the time, BEYOND my jurisdiction.

Despite this cold break with art so early on in my life, I felt a certain longing for a creative life for as long as I can remember – a desire to express myself in some other way than through my studies, my job, my hobbies, or my career. When I first became a mother fourteen years ago, the longing to express what had been kept silent for so long appeared to break something in me, to shatter an invisible glass wall that had previously interfered with the way I had seen and experienced the world around me. I felt as if my eyes had opened a little wider to take things in at different angles, from new and impossible perspectives. Thanks to the wonder that was expressed in my baby daughter’s bright, beautiful eyes, the world became a place of beauty and genuine excitement once again. And I felt that if I didn’t find a way to express my happiness and my newfound curiosity, my heart would surely burst with years of creative longing and angst.

So I did what my instinct told me to do at the time. I resolved that my children would know art, that they would breathe art, that art would become an intrinsic and irrepressible part of their lives. From the time they were very young, when their little fingers were impossibly tiny - barely the size of matchsticks, their tips smooth and pink - I would push a crayon or a paintbrush or a pencil or even a chopstick into their soft, warm hands. I refused to instruct them. My instinct told me that they should discover these instruments of creative expression on their own.

Sometimes, they would comically ogle the pencil crayon for a few moments and then quickly draw them into their mouths, discovering these tools as they were discovering the rest of the world around them. As they grew older, they would bang them on the floor and throw them joyfully across the room. Finally, they began to smash the nibs of the multicolored pens, pencils, and crayons into the large reams of paper that I would lay out on the floor beside them, creating tiny sprays of dots that over time, transformed into crazy, haphazard lines, inarticulate globs and patches of color, and finally into some abstract representation of a train, a cloud, a sun, a person, a playmate, a tree, or a bird.

I always made sure that I sat down on the floor with my children, surrounding myself with an assortment of ketchup, mustard, jam, and fruit juice – much to the dismay of my mother who strongly disapproved of such unhygienic activities – while my kids finger-painted with such familiar (and sometimes delicious) ingredients on extra-large pieces of cheap newsprint paper. We experimented with raw potatoes which I would cut into strange shapes and figures and which my children would dip into various condiments, stamping them onto the newsprint that covered the floor to create colorful, non-toxic, and wonderfully messy works of art.

In an effort to compensate for the lack of art in my life, I filled the house with every conceivable pastel crayon, charcoal pencil, and watercolor paint collection I could afford, leaving trails of multi-colored paper wherever I went, together with pieces of soft, earth-colored clay and home-made Play-Doh inspired by various tones of food coloring that I found at the local grocery store. I went to second-hand stores and brought home boxes full of books about illustration and oil painting and modern art, and I placed them on low shelves so that my children would have quick access to them if inspiration should strike. More often than not, I would find one or both of my children lying on their stomachs on the floor like soft, brilliantly-colored caterpillars munching on the corner of an old art textbook, completely engrossed in a Salvador Dali painting (which they found horrifying) or in a self-portrait of Frida Kahlo (which they also found horrifying).

As they got older, I took them into my lap and read to them aloud - much as I would a storybook or a book of poetry – to give life to the stories that I thought the paintings were trying to tell. Often, my children would disagree with me. “No, I think the prince is not happy, mama. See, he is holding the sword on top of his head. That means he’s mad and he wants to kill the dragon. He’s a very mean man. I don’t like him. He makes me feel scared.”

When we finally made our way to the art galleries in Montreal, Toronto, and New York City, or at the Smithsonian Institute in Washington, D.C., we played the “postcard game,” inspired by our reading of David Elliot Cohen’s book “One Year Off: Leaving It All Behind for a Round-the-World Journey with Our Children.” Before we began our informal tour of the various art galleries, I made sure to supply my children with an ample selection of postcards which featured photographs of various works of art – which they themselves had curated at the gift shop. Joyfully, my children explored the galleries for the art collections they now wielded in their hands, matching up the postcards with paintings and sculptures that were on display in the galleries.

Although my children soon tired of the game because of the crushing silence in the imposing and often gloomy white halls of those galleries, they soon developed a certain familiarity with the so-called “art world,” – a familiarity which had taken me many many years to develop. To this day, my children are not strangers to these beautiful mysterious places – places which to me had remained rigidly closed under lock and key until I was well into my twenties, because I had felt that I had no right to enter.

My children are young teenagers now, but art continues to be a part of their daily lives, as are books, music, sports, math, science, history, and everything else that the world has to offer. They do not feel like outsiders to the world of art; rather, they accept that they are naturally part of that world. To them, an artist is like everybody else they meet in their community – a real, tangible, human-blooded individual – someone heroic and skilled in many respects, but also accessible, approachable, and often even friendly. At various points in their young lives, they have aspired to become artists, much as they have aspired to become scientists, veterinarians, pop singers, and celebrity chefs. And they use art to express their feelings and their desires on a daily basis, by creating their own caricatures, doodles, paintings, illustrations, manga drawings, and comic strips.

My son is never without some kind of charcoal pencil or watercolor crayon, and rarely does a day go by when my daughter does not scribble or doodle all over her notebooks, in the margins of her homework, on the walls of her bedroom (much to my chagrin), or in one of the many scrapbooks that still lie in heaps and piles in various corners of our home. While my children do not consider themselves to be artists per se, they do not consider their art to be separate and apart from themselves, but rather an intrinsic part of their lives, and they have given themselves permission to explore the vast potential of their creative expression by every means possible.

As for myself, I have become a devoted student and ardent lover and supporter of art – in all of its glorious forms. Although I still feel intimidated when I walk into an art gallery, as if some ancient spirit were reminding me once again that I don’t belong within these hallowed walls of marble, alabaster, or polished glass, I am quick to shoo it away, knowing what I know now.

Art, after all, is a living, breathing thing, the energy of which transcends thousands of generations. It draws on a collective world consciousness made up of people from all walks of life, each of whom has a role to play in its expression and in its proliferation. Much like drops of water glistening on the bright green leaves of a tender young plant, each one of us is necessary and vital to sustain the work of those artists who bring truth and light into our lives, whether they labor in the basements of their suburban homes, in the great outdoors on the shores of a windswept sea, or in the sparse, white, brightly lit studios of London, Paris, New York, or Tokyo.

Contributor: The Art People
Όπως είχε πει ενας γνήσιος Guzzista πριν τον διώξει το καθεστώς : "Καιμε βενζίνη, οι υπόλοιποι καίνε το σάλιο τους!"