Notes from Hermitage Museum, Amsterdam

 
When coming comes to write about a subject, one must write as if no one has ever written about this particular one. For instance, when writing about Matisse, one should forget what he read on the sidewall regarding Matisse’s brush strokes and vivid use of colors. He or she must write as if they have no preconception about Fauvism, painting or even art itself. One should do this to obtain two goals. The first, if one does not do so he may risk the possibility of imitation, which for a writer is the greatest challenge, writing originally, from his or hers pure conscious and subconscious. It is important to relate to past writing, especially in today’s post-modern/self-reflexive society, but one should obtain this as in Zen or Dao. One must learn to forge, learn every scale of music and forget them when he comes up stage. That is the only way to be original yet coherent. 
The other reason is in consideration to the writer’s sanity if you will. If the writer should think of every note, book or article written about modern painting, this may drive him to throw away his pen in rage or lead him to depression. How can I compete with Richter, Barthes or Baudelaire? Even more so: when one comes to write of subject as love, morality or nostalgia, how can one compete with Kafka, St. Augustine or Leviticus? How can a writer take on the cannon?
Thus, one may feel doomed or liberated. Doomed, as most chances his writing will not see the light of day or will vanish into obscurity (or the 50c bargain basket). Liberated for just that reason. If chances are so slim, one should write without regard to any social or cultural coordinates, style or even grammar (provided it is done intentionally). Thus, one can achieve pure freedom and truth in his or hers own eyes.


© 2010 All rights reserved to E Nechin


2 comments:

  1. Since when are you fucking up your grammer intentionally?

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  2. It might interest you to know that I once had a very intense moment with Soutine's daughter,
    Kitchenia Cabinetta.
    As soon as I walked into the crowded literary soiree I was fatally attracted to this slim octogenarian whose face, indeed visage, was covered in moles, warts and other similar protuberances. These, together with her charmingly hairless pate, made her resemble at short distance a billiard ball perched on a polka dot cloth.

    It was this combination of sport and fashion that made me suddenly throw myself at her feet in a sexual frenzy, muttering short snatches from Smolenskin's 'Ode to a Withered Aunt'.
    Unfortunately thinking that I wanted to steal her vintage lace-up boots, she smashed me over the occiput with her crutch, thus fracturing my skull and also, incidentally the precious pair of tortoise shell spectacles which I had just borrowed from Eliezer Ben Yehuda (the Arab, not the Jew.)
    But as she said so poignantly at the subsequent trial: "Isn't that just like life?"

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