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A treasure of mini monographs.
- GenresArt
54 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1997
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October 3, 2014
Notes Toward a Meaningful Meaninglessess
Not depressed, but empty, alienated, alienated in the sense that no matter how physically close I am to someone else there is a yawning gulf between us. An unbridgeable void. A vast expanse without even echoes.
Like an other-dimensional invisible vastness that can fit into the tiniest space between me and another.
And when in this “state” all of life’s meaning that previously appeared to have accumulated – from my actions and accomplishments (however modest), from relationships present and past, from the simple accretion of it due to daily activities – all, all of it vanishes.
Yet the vanishing itself doesn’t vanish. It remains as a physical presence in my psyche. A terrifying presence of emptiness.
Meaning in life is a temporary byproduct of engagement in life, and so when not engaged it vanishes, yet its shadow sticks around to scare.
Negative detachment with loose-ended needs.
Often when in this state I am attracted to art that is free, yet free in a way that is also “clean” and ordered and formal; an art first and foremost freely imagined, but also (seemingly) free of meaning.
I do not want art that directly addresses the search for meaning, or directly addresses the lack of meaning. Examples of these seem “sweaty” to me; ugly, too fleshy, like errant slobs. They make me feel claustrophobic, crowding my psyche into proscribed meaning.
So why when I am detached from all meaning am I attracted to art that also seems absent of meaning?
Is it some kind of backdoor Platonic idealism? a retreat away from tangible meaning because of some inherent fear of struggle to find actual meaning here in the hurly-burly of sloppy life?
Or is it a longing for the hermetically free; a legitimate longing for something legitimate; an actual longing for “higher” meaning, a meaning that can not be contained within that which can be clearly understood?
In all “states” I am attracted to the hermetic, which in itself puzzles me; in that how does an intentional act of incommunicability communicate something to me?
Hermetic art puzzles me. But not hermetic art that is itself a puzzle, and thus by definition something that can be “solved”, and therefore no longer hermetic.
I do not want answers because answers are the end of engagement, and thus by my formulation the end of meaning.
And over the years, and through many episodes of being in this alienated state, my psyche has learned that no “easy” meaning can snap me out of it.
So when attracted to hermetic art while in this state perhaps processes are kicking in that take me yet further away from seeking easy answers, introducing into the lack of meaning a desire for lack of meaning in some kind of homeopathic action. Perhaps it is a natural reminder to my psyche to leave off seeking meaning, a prodding to get back into the play, the free play of words and of colors beyond direct meaning.
Perhaps hermetic art makes of the void something experiential, without sacrificing the profound authenticity of that void.
Trevor Winkfield’s paintings serve this purpose for me. Yes, I feel some psychic terror when gazing at them when in this state, but within this terror I can feel something working, some action taking place that is freeing something within my mental/perceptual processes, hacking away at the ice of my inner faculties and leading me back into action, back into Heraclitean play, back into the perpetual fire of engagement and its ever-fleeting play of meanings, the interplay of flashes of meaning within the vastness of meaninglessness.
Meaningful meaninglessness.
Not depressed, but empty, alienated, alienated in the sense that no matter how physically close I am to someone else there is a yawning gulf between us. An unbridgeable void. A vast expanse without even echoes.
Like an other-dimensional invisible vastness that can fit into the tiniest space between me and another.
And when in this “state” all of life’s meaning that previously appeared to have accumulated – from my actions and accomplishments (however modest), from relationships present and past, from the simple accretion of it due to daily activities – all, all of it vanishes.
Yet the vanishing itself doesn’t vanish. It remains as a physical presence in my psyche. A terrifying presence of emptiness.
Meaning in life is a temporary byproduct of engagement in life, and so when not engaged it vanishes, yet its shadow sticks around to scare.
Negative detachment with loose-ended needs.
Often when in this state I am attracted to art that is free, yet free in a way that is also “clean” and ordered and formal; an art first and foremost freely imagined, but also (seemingly) free of meaning.
I do not want art that directly addresses the search for meaning, or directly addresses the lack of meaning. Examples of these seem “sweaty” to me; ugly, too fleshy, like errant slobs. They make me feel claustrophobic, crowding my psyche into proscribed meaning.
So why when I am detached from all meaning am I attracted to art that also seems absent of meaning?
Is it some kind of backdoor Platonic idealism? a retreat away from tangible meaning because of some inherent fear of struggle to find actual meaning here in the hurly-burly of sloppy life?
Or is it a longing for the hermetically free; a legitimate longing for something legitimate; an actual longing for “higher” meaning, a meaning that can not be contained within that which can be clearly understood?
In all “states” I am attracted to the hermetic, which in itself puzzles me; in that how does an intentional act of incommunicability communicate something to me?
Hermetic art puzzles me. But not hermetic art that is itself a puzzle, and thus by definition something that can be “solved”, and therefore no longer hermetic.
I do not want answers because answers are the end of engagement, and thus by my formulation the end of meaning.
And over the years, and through many episodes of being in this alienated state, my psyche has learned that no “easy” meaning can snap me out of it.
So when attracted to hermetic art while in this state perhaps processes are kicking in that take me yet further away from seeking easy answers, introducing into the lack of meaning a desire for lack of meaning in some kind of homeopathic action. Perhaps it is a natural reminder to my psyche to leave off seeking meaning, a prodding to get back into the play, the free play of words and of colors beyond direct meaning.
Perhaps hermetic art makes of the void something experiential, without sacrificing the profound authenticity of that void.
Trevor Winkfield’s paintings serve this purpose for me. Yes, I feel some psychic terror when gazing at them when in this state, but within this terror I can feel something working, some action taking place that is freeing something within my mental/perceptual processes, hacking away at the ice of my inner faculties and leading me back into action, back into Heraclitean play, back into the perpetual fire of engagement and its ever-fleeting play of meanings, the interplay of flashes of meaning within the vastness of meaninglessness.
Meaningful meaninglessness.
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