It is not the first time this happens. The doubts are serious. They do not concern the reception, but the creation of art. There comes a time when the sacrifice the creation requires is such that the work itself seems ridiculous. Why the suffering? For the final satisfaction? At this particular time it seems more like the satisfaction will barely be relief. The disappearance of a burden.
Burden art. (Chris Burden. What a strange name to have for someone who shoots himself for art. For someone who locks himself in a locker for many days, for art.)
Per aspera ad astra: through suffering to the stars. This is the price you rarely hear about, or at least rarely acknowledge. At a certain point there is really hardly any pleasure left of this pleasurable ride called art, and in this case, once again, it seems the crucial point. The point where things are decided. And, of course, if you hear about the artist again, it is probably because he survived, he made it through. At what cost, though? What are we left with?
Maybe being an artist is surviving and still remembering the freshness of the draft. And then, still having the strength, and guts, to share it.
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