Writing, Art, Pretentiousness

I'm deeply gratified by the fact that I gain great satisfaction from writing fiction in addition to social commentary. Today's post may seem somewhat in the vein of dear diary but there is a point to be had from this introspection.

Several days ago I had a discussion with someone about "The Scream" painting but Edvard Munch, though you'll have to forgive the sheer pretentiousness of that notion. Most would probably recognise it - it looks like a horrifying version of Macauly Culkin doing his scream thing. What we discussed was the fear and inner torment that would prompt someone to create such a work - "The Scream" just happens to be toe-curlingly scary for a mere painting.

No one ever changed the world by being an observer or a historian; art is about self-expression, and this is why artists like Andy Warhol will be seen as footnotes in art history. Warhol's art reflected his theories about society, rather than a conveyance of raw emotion and ideas; which is what I consider to be the true purpose of art. "The Scream" is so powerful because it does communicate the emotions of the artist, and these emotions are deeply profound and unsettling.

I have no skill or ability in fine arts and my skill at writing is still in its infancy, but still, I've stumbled upon my own screamer. Not all artistic creations should be of horror, obviously, but self-realisation is important for everyone. "The Scream" gave a literal face to the anguish in Munch's mind.

The kind of mettle that allows a man to give life to their own personal demons is an admirable quality. I doubt Warhol's demons were portrayed in any soup can.