Art is that thing having to do only with itself – the product of a successful attempt to make a work of art. Unfortunately, there are no examples of art, nor good reasons to think that it will ever exist. (Everything that has been made has been made with a purpose, everything with an end that exists outside that thing, i.e, I want to sell this, or I want this to make me famous and loved, or I want this to make me whole, or worse, I want this to make others whole.) And yet we continue to write, paint, sculpt, and compose. Is this foolish of us?
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 hours x 2 – it’s not working (obviously). That night is both the best and worst thing that can happen. A glimpse of what could be, like a promise made so that it can be broken.
for her memory is no less primary than the prick of a pin, or its silver glimmer, or the taste of the blood it pulls from the finger. She is pricked by a pin and remembers other pins. It is only by tracing the pinprick back to other pinpricks – that she is able to know why it hurts.