Art is a blurring of fact and fiction.

Like I remember hitting my head as a kid in the third person. It’s not a false memory exactly; it’s more of a corporate one. Some memories are in the first and third person simultaneously, especially childhood memories, in part because they are so inflected by the stories others tell us about what we experienced. They are collaborative productions. Always involving an element of fiction, subject to revision.

Like Proust: he prefers the literary description of the cathedral to the cathedral, but the reader is experiencing the mediate immediately. For Proust the second-order experience is the real one. He has to withdraw into his room to experience the outside.

Ambivalence about the value of art is actually really interesting material for thinking about making art. Because making art is always, to a certain degree, happening in a space where there’s a crisis of value. That clichéd accusation—“Why don’t you get a real job?”—also contains a substantial claim about art, which is that there’s some alternative regime of value being implied by the activity of art making that isn’t compatible with the mundane economy.

 

 

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