ART IN THE FUTURE

Is it more important to know how to repair a car or paint a picture? Is it more important to know how to repair a boiler or create a sculpture? Is it more important to repair a fridge than to sew a bag? If you don't know how to fix certain objects then you can't drive, you can't store food, you can't heat the water. Let's imagine for a moment that there is a black out and you can no longer turn on the TV, the fridge will not be able to turn on, the car batteries will not be able to charge. Therefore it will be necessary to do without everything that requires electricity and repairs. So what will humans do? Will they return to observe the paintings they have in the house and dream? No, because they didn't want to spend money to buy the paintings but only spent money on useful things. And art is not considered useful. But in the future all the appliances will be turned off and whoever has books and paintings will be able to dream. Everyone else will perhaps die of boredom.

MY ART IN MARCH 2022

These are my paintings of eime months ago. I was very upset, very lonely, and this is what comes out from me. ( I use recycled cardboards as support).

THE EFFEC OF ART IN THE BRAIN

There are artists who paint what they see, others who paint what they remember or what they imagine. Our brain changes in the face of reality but, at the same time, it is capable of changing it: a "different" brain must therefore have a different relationship with reality.
In art this "process" can lead to the creation of new realities, which will only partly depend on "sensorial information"; our brain, in fact, does not necessarily need the continuous "information flow" coming from our senses. Dreams, memories that "revive" in mental images and also representations "simply" created by our mind testify to this event.
In this sense, art amplifies reality, creates a new "mental channel" capable of opening up to new experiences. The visual stimuli, real or evoked by memory, which excite the nervous system of the artist at the moment of the creation of the work of art, transformed by his hand into colors and shapes, will stimulate the nervous system of the observer. The work of art must be able to arouse in the observer's brain sensations and emotions that were present in the artist's brain. Approaching a work of art, looking at it, perceiving it, understanding it and appreciating it, implies the involvement of many brain structures and the activation of very specific mechanisms, starting from the functioning at the basis of visual perception, to those involved in the so-called "psychology of see ", in the aesthetic and emotional experience. This refers not only to the emotion felt by those who enjoy a painting but also to the creative moment that involves the artist to create his work.
Some researchers, especially psychologists and neurophysiologists, have been fascinated by the possibility of studying the properties and characteristics of the brain that are part of the evaluation of a work of art and the pleasure it can give; persuaded by the idea that the understanding of these cerebral mechanisms, together with the knowledge of the events of the life of an artist and of the culture of his time, can favor a greater "knowledge" and appreciation of the work and of those who created it.
A work of art is born from the combination of what the artist experiences "visually" and how he interprets what is communicated to him from the outside world. Both the acquisition of visual information and its internal processing can be altered by pathological causes.
The effects of serious mental illnesses, often altering the artist's perceptive and emotional abilities, can affect his pictorial expression and testify how the painter's life story becomes an integral part of his work.
All this emerges in the paintings of some great painters in particular moments of their life.

ART IS UNUSEFUL NOW

I was an artist, in my past, I abandoned everything. I am Italian and Italy is the cradle of art but we modern artists have no value and are not considered. Art is dead, it is not even sold in thrift stores. Nobody wants art and books. It is a company that has lost its sense of beauty. I also created jewels, bags, all sewn only with needle and thread, all ecological to the maximum, but nobody wants objects and things not signed by famous people. I hate this destructive society, I hate living in this place where art is deemed useless. Art is completely useless. (!?) There is a paradox in this statement that crosses different aspects of living. From the point of view of economic logic, art has no value (… and be careful not to confuse the accidental usefulness of the work of art), and it is for this reason that the evaluation of the work of art is almost entrusted to discretion. of the operators of the sector, which in any case has no practical basis except in the research paths that distinguish it. This is the difficulty of the artist when he tries to quantify the value of his own art, confused between the value of his own creative force and the product of this work, finally also unwittingly resorting to recognizing the canons of the art system. For these reasons, the artist’s image is often distorted and associated with bizarre behavior and in any case of economic unreliability. The artist is often torn between the need to express all his expressive / artistic potential and that of obtaining a sufficient livelihood income anyway. The problem is that the two are complementary and it follows that chasing the first solution leads to distancing from the other. However, although art does not correspond to an economic value, it still has an exchange value and the person is often the bearer and component of it. Dressing in fashion is an example of enjoying art. Before stating that art is useless, the person will have to stop and explain why he wears colorful clothes instead of being satisfied with the simple usefulness of clothing. Art does not bring practical improvements. However, it influences the psychophysical state of the person and therefore indirectly becomes the bearer of well-being. This is partly associated with the value of art. The contradiction arises from the fact that art is the expression of the gratuitousness of feelings, while its commodification is a mask placed at a later time that can hide its origin.

WHEN I WAS AN ARTIST

For years, every year, just as punctual as the equinox, a phone call came. That phone call somehow marked the start of summer. That phone call brought creative work to do each time. That phone call sounded like, "Get ready, I'm renovating the place, come up with something." Whenever free to paint what I wanted on those walls, I was given only the LA, perhaps saying to myself: "I had thought of this theme for this year". I have lost count of how many murals I have done over time in that place, where, thinking about it, I somehow grew up. Then the place was given to others in management, the phone calls stopped and the years went by, many, and yet, from time to time, someone still asks me: "Do you remember when you did it like this? It was so beautiful!"
You lean on my shoulder. "Tell me something" you tell me and I begin to tell a story from a long time ago, of a footballer who tore his shirt in a world final to make a hole in which to put the thumb of his dislocated arm in order to continue playing.

You fall asleep again. I begin to glimpse the ceiling thanks to the first rays of the sun.

I leave you there to sleep while I go to make breakfast. Soon Tigrotto will wake up too, so I crumble the Plasmon biscuits for his milk.

It's 6 o'clock.

It will be a beautiful day.

MY FAVOURITE VINCENT

The Blossoming Almond Branch is an oil painting on canvas that Van Gogh painted in Saint-Rémy in 1880 shortly before taking his own life. He painted it on the occasion of the birth of his nephew Vincent Willem, son of his beloved brother Theo. Inside, he chose to represent, as a symbol of nascent life, a freshly blossomed almond tree. Almond blossoms are the first to bloom with the beginning of spring, sometimes even anticipating it by blooming in late winter, and therefore become the symbol of life and the hope it brings with it. Nevertheless, since they tend to fade after a short time they also represent fragility, delicacy. So much, in short, in a single painting, in a simple branch. All this to say that this is one of the Van Gogh paintings that I love most. There is nothing that strikes me more than beauty, pure charm, that what is fragile unconsciously possesses.

WHAT IS USELESS IN YOUR LIFE?

If we took one of these paintings to a gallery today, it would be considered amateur painting. Because other types of paintings are in fashion, often digital, that everyone wants in their living room. Modern art is now considered useless junk. When I go to exhibitions, here for example the Biennale, there are always very few people. Today, more than ever, people judge art as a superfluous thing, which one can do very well without. And I say this as an artist. Talking to so many people, how much they feel that I am an artist, everyone becomes "what a beautiful thing". But if you ask them how many artists' paintings they have bought in their entire life, they say "I'm sorry, nobody". If I ask why they tell me they had more needed things and they used their money for other things. This is really disheartening for an artist but in reality this happens.The painting I put here in this post is a PAUL KLEE's artwork. Would you who look at it think it's worth millions? Yet Christies of London sold a Klee for:

Hammer price: $ 6,767,549 (Christie's, London, United Kingdom, 21/06/2011)
Maybe you found a Klee work in your attic and you think it's the artistic task of some nerdy kid. Because for many people artists waste time, starve and produce useless things. Not all think this thought but most. Even if an artist is quoted a lot of money, he remains one who produced useless things.
"Art is completely useless"

What do you think about it?

This sentence was written by Oscar Wilde, more than a century ago in the preface of his famous short story "The Portrait of Dorian Gray".
In particular Wilde said:

"We can forgive a man for having done something useful if he does not admire it. The only excuse for doing something useless is to admire it intensely. All art is seless."

Beauty for millions of people is a beautiful woman, a beautiful man, an actress, a Greek statue. How much art do you have in your home? How much art would you like?
Why does an artist keep creating? If there is any artist among you and he wants to answer, he can give his idea here. If there is someone who paints as a hobby, you can tell here why they do it and what emotions they feel.

ART FOR HEART SELF

Today anxiety was destroying the walls of my heart. it crushed veins, arteries, nerves, and not even a movie could help me. Yet it was Vermeer. So I was taken by the painful creative fury, shaken like a tree by the wind and since I didn't have the canvas to paint, I took a curtain and cried colors over it. And did I feel good afterwards? no not at all. I've been worse. Because this will be yet another painting that will end up in the attic or burned in the barbecue. There is no hope.

CAMILLE CLAUDEL

CAMILLE CLAUDEL is a french female sculptress. She lives her life in an extraordinary and contradictory context in Belle Époque France where the realization of female identity was still very difficult. Despite the various obstacles, the sculptress managed to establish herself by carving out an unprecedented and not small space for action in art - there are over fifty works that document the entire span of her production - despite the existential junctions that strongly influenced her: the problematic relationship with the family, the strong bond with his brother Paul, who converted will become an exponent of the uncompromising Catholicism of the French society of the times, the love and hate story with the sculptor Rodin and finally the mental illness, the twist in itself - as in the statue of the cover image - and internment in an asylum.

The academy Camille attended was mainly dedicated to sculpture, offered women the same opportunities as men and left the pupils great flexibility in the curriculum. Shortly afterwards Camille decided to move to an atelier in Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, where in 1882 Auguste Rodin came to teach. At that time, the master had been fighting for a quarter of a century against the classicist sculpture of the time. After two years under the direction of Rodin, Camille perfectly modeled the human body especially her hands and feet, thus she became one of Rodin's assistants, preparing clay, plaster and armor or modeling the hands and feet of sculptural subjects. Their works in fact in that period are very similar, obviously Rodin used Camille's genius as it was normal at the time to use his assistants. It is also true that we have a large production of Rodin in this period, of Camille almost nothing.
Their well-known love affair, which was born working side by side, leads to fifteen years of a passionate and stormy affair, from which Camille will however emerge exhausted, defeated not only humanly but also as an artist to the point of destroying her own works. Camille ends her relationship with the sculptor after realizing that no marriage would be possible between them - Rodin will always remain attached to Rose Beuret, his constant companion for years that the sculptor will never leave. Most likely, from some sources there is also evidence of an interrupted pregnancy, it seems that this very event has seriously undermined the balance of the young woman. An unhappy love, that for Auguste Rodin, exclusive, tinged with professional jealousies and above all poisoned by the prejudices of society, by the distance and then by the abandonment of Camille by the Claudel family in solitude and in precarious economic conditions.
Camille has always shown that she has a unique talent and genius, she has absolute mastery of movement, think of one of her most famous works La Valse (1895-1905) where movement and stillness are in perfect balance. For the client, the figuration of an embrace was clear and the work even scandalized the inspector of the Ministry of Fine Arts.

Here it is a perfect whole of strength, screwed on itself, pushed by the dynamism of the male figure that wraps the female one tied and held by the dress that descends to the ground. For the artist it is an attempt to grasp life in its movement, in its transformation, in the precarious balance of a tormented bond. What matters is that over time, the artist will not want to depict a single figure, he is not satisfied with the character but wants to tell a story, a complete narrative. A talent, that of Camille, which already leads her to distinguish herself from her peers at the age of 12, took inspiration everywhere for her drawings and clay sculptures from old engravings to anatomical models using her brothers Paul and Louise as models.
Camille had a limp defect and this perhaps led her to seek perfection in art with an impulsive gesture. She was very attached to her father, who was in fact her greatest ally until his death in 1913 - once he died, perhaps the only ally in his life was interned in a mental hospital. Perhaps in Rodin he saw precisely his father, often absent for work: in the Buste de Rodin the master sculptor looks much more than his forty-four years, he looks like an old man with a thick beard, a severe but affectionate father figure.

Camille also had a close bond with her brother Paul, from an early age in fact their great imagination gave them a unique cohesion. Although after his law studies he embarked on a diplomatic career, he devoted himself to art through poetry and dramaturgy, after his conversion to Catholicism in 1886 he became one of the exponents of intransigent Catholicism, that Catholicism that felt public reproach in name of atavistic prejudices for nonconformist women like Camille. Camille's very religious middle-class family reacted to her crises by having her interned in a nursing home for the mentally ill in Montfavet, where she remained for thirty years until her death. According to a journalist of the time, Paul Théodore Vibert, Camille had been arbitrarily interned for persecution psychosis only because her family was ashamed of her and her unconventional behavior.
The story is quite well known today and the French have dedicated two films to it, one in 1988 with Isabelle Adjiani and Gérard Depardieu directed by bruno Nuytten, the other in 2013 with Isabelle Binoche and directed by Bruno Dumont. It was 1913 when her mother and brother Paul sent her to hospital. Camille died in an asylum in 1943, without ever creating works of art again. It is she herself who does not want to be given the materials for sculpting. Yet she still writes very lucid letters to her mother (who will never go to see her), to her brother, to some friends. From these letters Chiara Pasetti freely drew a play entitled Moi, contained in her book, which premiered in Genoa in September with the actress Lisa Galantini in the former asylum of Quarto. The book ends with photographs of many of his works and also some of Rodin's works.

LOVING AN ARTIST

Loved only by those who had brought me into the world, I was a winged-hearted creature. A free creature, who would never have sacrificed the wings of freedom to a stupid and obsolete feeling commonly called love. Armed only with myself, in the evening, I spread my wings above the world and let myself be caressed by the wind, with my soul naked and free of inhibitions. The warm currents squeezed me and the taste of the lack of ties satisfied me; nothing in the world could ever upset my balance. Nothing, I was sure, for nothing, in my eyes, shone more than freedom. They are artists, for me, those who know how to create a unique world in which to take refuge. You, for me, were an artist. And as such, I envied you when, from the bedroom window, I saw the most beautiful paintings I had ever seen take shape on previously white canvases. Then you smiled at me, sent me a kiss and went back to painting. If it was just a joke, or if you really wanted to give me kisses, I don’t know, but the way you looked at me, the curious eyes with which you looked at my tousled hair and my oversized jacket, made me fall back lightly my wings, before spreading them in all their glory and straightening my head. No one would ever overwhelm me, not you, with your gemstone gaze, not anyone else. I was not like you. I was not beautiful, or clear, and I did not look perfect even with the face dirty with acrylic color and the hair gathered in a messy way. I’ve never been like you. I, I told myself, was free. Free from all ties and free from everything that could have binded me to the world. And my greatest wealth was freedom. Of this I am sure. I lived like this, as it happened. I lived for the day, detaching myself more and more from the earthly world and taking refuge in the warmth of my parents’ hugs. Their chests were warm and full of life. Full of love for me, but that love, perhaps, was not enough. That love, perhaps, did not have the color of your paintings and did not represent sunrises and sunsets. That love, I discovered, was not yours. It was inviolate, unconditional, but it did not come from the chest of the only person who, with his paintings and his smile, was able to take my breath away and make me angry. When I realized I loved you, I cried. I cried like I had never done before. One evening when it was raining I went out, on tiptoe I reached towards the sky; towards freedom, but this was so far away. I closed my eyes, as the rain soaked my clothes and weighed me down, I promised myself that feeling would not touch me. His chains would not have destroyed my wrists. I think I’ve never been good at keeping my promises, nor at winning wars. And so, crying, my feet touched the ground and for you, for your paintings and your sunsets, I tasted your lips stained with tempera, drowning in your presence and in your breath, clinging to my shoulders with all of myself. If you had left me, I would have died. I also gave up my only affections; those parents who, when they learned that I loved a girl, closed the door in my face and never reopened it are still just a memory. “Don’t you want to play with me today?” The wind asks me. But my wings are closed now, I hold your hand. That’s okay, you know? Sleep, sleep a little longer, my love. When you wake up, I will still be here. If, however, you find only this letter, look at the sun. Rising, it brings you a message: “She loves you,” he says “More than freedom?” “Yes, more than freedom.”

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