The more we immerse our minds in art-related musings, the clearer it becomes why its creators, its writers and painters and sculpors, are by nature inclined to foster conceit – for what self-made god can bear face the brutal transparency of his feebleness? And who would furthermore dare undertake an act of creation while compelled to perpetually gaze at a portrait much like Dorian Gray’s?
People don’t tolerate major personal flaws -society’s very architecture stands witness- so surely no genuine artist ever managed to bring forth his brain’s invention through the medium extracted from opened wrists. Inspiration alone may be the result of shed blood, not ink, nor paint (metaphorically, though).
That’s where narcissism luckily intervenes.
To produce despite individual defects one must employ the ancient trick of duplicity, contrive a persona to enact when, say, before one’s blank Word page, and thus escape any humiliating acknowledgement of faults. In this regard, Narcissus’ legend provides the perfect example: man investing his projection with autonomy. Writer conceiving a narrator-deity, mainly because he’s congenitally susceptible to solipsism.
There’s no creation whose genesis eludes this particular self-deceit.
Do you concur?
Patricia Beykrat – the Roving Aesthete