Thursday, December 4, 2014

Contemporary Art

When I visited the Museum of Fine Arts, I had to sit down and write poetry because I was so overwhelmed with feeling and emotion. I wasn't planning on sharing this poetry ever but the occasion presented itself marvelously. The spoken word poetry club hosted an open mic and invited PHIL KAYE. PHIL KAYE. Can we just take a moment to appreciate that I met PHIL KAYE? Phil Kaye is such a talented poet and it's so different seeing his poetry in person vs just on Youtube. UGH spoken word poetry is alive!! 
So I shared this poem and it was a really good Tuesday night. Tuesday was a really good day <3 







Contemporary Art


you once told me that

the future is here, everything we dreamed of and more
people and technology have begun to exist as one entity
the lack of newspapers, conversation in coffee shops, music with audible lyrics
we carry little boxes that free us from the mundane world
A false sense of connection because we are physically attached to the internet
Inadequate to be just human, our transformation to cyborg is almost complete
the death of culture is imminent, as my mother always said
it seems we as a species have lost the capacity to feel, love, live.

I sit in English class where they tell me that
art is dead, dead as the nail in a coffin, dead as mackerel, dead as the Roman Empire
perhaps it was the first thing to go
where is the stylistic technique, the realistic nature of portraits, the imagery, they ask with angry eyes.
have we become so desperate that everything frivolous, pointless, absurd has meaning?
how is a blank canvas with a single blue stripe art?
art no longer resembles anything.
it has devolved into something beyond our grasp of understanding
art is clearly dead.

I sit on a practically empty bus but manage to hear a hysteric girl saying that
love is dead, dead as the nail in a coffin, dead as mackerel, dead as the Roman Empire
it’s hard to argue with her when love is as simple as swiping left or right after a two second impression.
how is that we trust a calculated computerized formula more than feelings, inclination, emotions?
because of feminism,  apparently chivalry has evolved, changed, and completely disappeared
because in this world of formulas and mechanic impulses we can no longer comprehend what real unadulterated emotion feels like
love is clearly dead.

one tuesday afternoon, I took the liberty of wandering around an art museum
and despite their aching, painful words claiming that art is dead,
art is not dead, it’s thriving
contemporary art exists outside their robotic process of life, it cannot be confined to what art is supposed to look like
it fills the page with imagination, bright lights, and vivid images of ordinary being
a man brushing his teeth, the shadows a chair projects, a reflection of yourself
how can something we see every day be considered beautiful, fragile, delicate, provocative?
we spend so much time running, running away, running from fear,  running from death
the irony
because while our minds float somewhere else, our bodies drag along the surface of this earth
because we deem this world void of culture, of interesting things, life
yet contemporary art bridges the gap between the robots we’ve become and the primitive beings we once were
while it ceases to resemble Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Monet,  something as simple as a streak of blue paint on a blank canvas stirs 7 billion different interpretations
people still seek to start conversation, to expose truth in a monotonous world, to appreciate emotion
art is created because someone had something deeply intimate to say
clearly, art is not dead

So
I want to wake up one morning and realize that I love you like contemporary art
not because love is dead like art, but  
because love shouldn’t have to try to be anything
because love doesn’t have a specific mold, a tight little box to squeeze into
because two people finding connection in any circumstance is beautiful
I want my toes to lose circulation, my heart to beat a little bit faster
a state of shock, fear, excitement
to love all the quirks and imperfections that make you you
love is irrational, and it’s okay to not understand
it’s okay to be confused because love is not supposed to add up like the neat little equations we’ve come to expect
to feel perfectly content existing as a streak of paint on a blank canvas
because it completes each other, creating its own meaning
it’s real, alive, something you can hear beating in your chest
it’s not an escape from reality or this world we’ve made into a mundane state of death
this is us creating our own meaning in something people no longer give any worth to
I want to love you like contemporary art

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