Contradictions

As self-indulgent and conceited as it might sound, I consider myself an artist, and subscribe to the belief that artists are different, that they have a sight and vision others do not, that they feel in ways that others do not, and that they live out their lives in ways that others do not; this is not to say, however, that artists are better, in any way, than anyone else here on the earth, or even to say that there are not drastically different forms of art, for I would be foolish to consider the brilliancy of mathematics and physics un-artistic. But, as I was discussing with my friend recently, a painter herself, there are terrific downsides to being an artist. For myself, I take an odd fancy to loneliness, and I struggle with depression and relationships but at the same time relish my time alone. I also straddle the line between self-deprecation and artistic arrogance without the proper balance. In many ways, I am a walking and breathing contradiction. Here is Whitman in Leaves of Grass:

 

“Do I contradict myself?

Very well, then, I contradict myself;

(I am large—I contain multitudes.)”

 

The latest contradiction I have found myself a part of lies in the realm of the abstract. On the one hand, I am an artist, and I savor the idea that millions of people can read a single sentence and have different responses evoked; but on the other hand, I hate, absolutely abhor not understanding things. Like God, like women, like poetry, like love, like Picasso, like relationships. There are so many things which I do not understand and that I desperately desire to understand. I yearn for the ability to consistently derive joy and ecstasy from the abstract—in all of its forms.