I need Art to live. I need to see it to live. And Architecture. I need to think about it and be around it. When I was a teen, this was absolutely factually true: I’d get suicidal and I’d take myself to the NPG or eventually Tate (Britain – it was one Tate then, I’m old). I’d spend some time with Mrs. Morris etc. and I’d come home and keep going. Last week I was sitting in my room on other soil, having seen some of the Art had changed my life 20 years ago, and I still wanted to kill myself. But then I went and saw new stuff, on my own, in my own time and I felt better. I must not forget that I need Art. It sounds like Poncy Twattery, but it’s true. I may be somewhere on the Autistic Spectrum, I’m certainly highly medicated in all kinda ways and for me the need for Art is real. For many they need Music, Dance, Sport, Cooking, Alcohol etc. for me it’s Paintings, Drawings, Sculpture and Architecture. My years of Academic study did their best to spoil it for me, and my Mother’s Death last year knocked it flat out of me – beyond my reach. I really did think, sitting in my holiday bed, that I had lost my ‘floatation device’ – my life preserver. But no, I just had to find Art new to me. God, I sound like such a Wanker. Eugh. Why can’t I be into Cosplay or small batch Gin? Why such a Damn stereotype. Ah, Fuck It.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti: Prosepine – or Mrs. Morris. As a teen, this floated my boat. Now, not so much. But you should not deny your past.
Egon Schiele: Autumn Tree in Stirred Air (1912). Schiele moved me 20 years ago in a distant way. This time more so- I spent a lot of time looking at this in raking light (at an angle) to see the brush marks – I even bought a poster. And took non-flash photos. I hated myself.
I apologise for my Twattery, and there will be more of it. But I promise, I won’t judge your choice of Twattery.