I want art.
I want to be surrounded by the pure expressions of peoples being. The silt and the filth and the ether. The original kind of consumerism, a primordial craving for real-ness. I thirst for a crystalline vision straight from a mind prism not the superficial dust that a day can be spent arranging and rearranging, wondering what it means to everybody else. Some 'artists' are entrepreneurs of channeled and honed aesthetics of everyones elses ideas of what art should be. Latent talent, manipulated by those they know, too scared, too ignorant, to know themselves. Still these are accurate reflections of a something, but a something so filtered, so distorted it becomes nothing but another by product and they, the manufacturer. Release yourselves from your own prisons. Give me rolling hills of undulating spirit. By the time a critic has gathered a detailed analysis of a work, what does it matter to the real artist, they have meanwhile gone on evolving somewhere out of earshot. They can't hear a word spoken, their own gravitational pull is the only momentum and they most surrender. There are no apologies for outright exposure. It's treachery to clothe a naked truth. I crave those with the courage to show their souls. To be living their tapestries and to be naked to me.