The ability to create knowingly comes with great responsibility. I am not here to bore you with the irrelevant pondering about the meaning of art – much rather, I am looking to reach the balance of my own, to calm the anger and irritation that arise in me as I encounter new (read: modern) authors, proudly enlisting their works in the ranks of poetry.
Nothing abides by definitions anymore, much less works of art, since the lack of definition seems to be the core of their beauty. Poetry is not rhymes, not rhythm, but anything a free mind creates within or outside the bounds of reality. I find it hard to balance on the edge, yet I intend on forgetting about sensationalism and weaving my thread away from the classics.
Do you still follow?
I condemn, in my idealistic mind, creators who throw a tainted brush at a canvas, draw a black dot in the sea of white paper, sit on the keyboard in dirty jeans to create a cacophony of sounds – all for the sake of novelty in art.
This is not novelty. This is madness, and stylistically it’s tasteless and vain. If these words of mine insult you as a professional, just remember – сколько людей, столько и мнений.
Pretentious as I may seem – I come from kind intentions, and this is the last poorly constructed apology on this matter.