Wherefore I Make Art, Dearies

A former professor’s (Max King Cap) terrifying and stunning artist statement:

Narrative––hermetic or lavish—is our touchstone and the only artistic strategy capable of uncloaking us to ourselves. It is the visual equivalent of revealed religion. All artworks worthy of consideration are purposing toward the same realization; confession. The moment art attempts philosophy (crudely drawn) or science (sadly naïve) it is an admission of failure, for art will not respond to a Socratic interrogation nor provide data that can be formulated to replicate its revelations. Without a wholehearted investment of the personal, the artwork shall remain a collection of formal contrivances, initially impressive but ultimately vacuous. An artist may imply and an audience might infer but we’ve no protocol proficient––stubborn hope and arrogant insistence are simply signs of panic––in translating the taciturn object into a garish interpretation. The self, alone, is the magnetic pole and the whole of the world is drawn to it. 

Our desire to win praise, lure the unwitting, garner sympathy, or the dozen different façades we mount in order to account ourselves finer than we know ourselves to be are all evidence that we are unfit to recognize, and fearful to tell, the truth. Art attempts to remove these veneers; therefore some nakedness must be attempted in order that the viewer and the artist may stand unprotected before the judgment of our own dubious conscience.

Each life is a negotiation between its ambitions and its fears, an attempt to distance noble flesh from its verso of corrupted meat. So we attempt to balance, head swiveling, divulging each side’s secrets to the other. Art is the transcript of that conversation.


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