WEEKLY SOUTHERN ARTS
"Sometime the boogaloo 
  • Home
  • Guns, Faith and Murder
  • The Million Dollar Store
  • Artistic Con-cepts
  • Judy Garland - "Soul Singer"
  • Robert & Jimi and the Twenty Seven Blues
  • The Great Pretenders
  • Imagine
  • Me and Junior Parker
  • The Republican
  • Sweet Home Chicago (The Obama Shakedown)
  • The Ballad of Hunter & Joe
  • The 22-yr-old Bottle Blonde
  • Is It Alright...To Be White?
  • Resist the Devil and He Will Flea
  • Music & Reminiscence
  • Lowell George searching for authenticity
  • A Telling Lie
  • Part One: The Monster Is Summoned
  • Like Billy Eckstein Singing to an Empty Club at 1:00 AM on a Saturday Night in 1975.
  • Bent
  • Kelly Joe Phelps
  • Why The Devil Don't Come Around No More
  • Hearing Junior Wells “On Tap'' one more Time
  • Muddy and Me
  • American Youth: The Rise of The New Media
  • Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Talk About Slavery and Shit
  • Just Smoke
  • The Big Maybe
  • The Skinny
  • Florida in Images and More Images
  • "Muthafuckin' Chains!"
  • The Inner Man
  • This is Not a Political Article
  • A Tale of Wine and Murder
  • Jesus Was a Sly Dog
  • The Existential Croûton
  • The Prison Yard Blues
  • Conspiracy Theory
  • 4 More Poems, 4 More Pictures
  • "Are You Freaking People Insane?"
  • 4 Pictures 4 Poems
  • The Ballad of Carlos Slim
  • Pretending What's in Your Head is True
  • The Cognitive Dissonance of a Faithful Democrat
  • The Human Snakepit
  • George Freeman - Unsung Master of the Jazz Guitar
  • The Price of Milk
  • Suspicious Minds
  • Bill O'Reilly Sexual Predator?
  • The New Soldier
  • Orwell Revisited
  • Larry Coryell - The Godfather is Dead
  • A Tiger Beat
  • South Florida - HOT & COOL
  • Jean Paul Sartre & the Existentialist Mojo
  • Culture Matters, Immigration Matters, Sharks Matter
  • Thomas Sowell
  • A Tree Falls In Central Park on a Gay Banker
  • Black Codes From The Underground
  • Man Talk, with Donald Trump pt. 1
  • Man Talk, with Donald Trump pt. 2
  • Brexit Was the Shot Heard Around the World
  • I Love The Dead
  • The Game
  • Goodbye Scotty Moore
  • If a Bluebird Plays the Blues Why Can't it Play Free Jazz
  • When David Slew Goliath
  • Why Cream still Matters 50 Years Later
  • Goodbye Lonnie Mack
  • Black Lies Matter, All Lies Matter
  • The Folly of Foibles
  • The Life of an Imaginary Historian
  • Angel: part 7
  • Wayne Cochran "Going Back to Miami"
  • The Last Damned Healthcare Article You'll Ever Need
  • The Gospel According to Mark
  • Angel: part VI
  • Ted Bundy & The Hunt For The Devil
  • Charlie & Clint: Dead & Deader
  • Trayvon & George : An American Hate Story
  • Jury Duty
  • Little Tommy & The Blues Kings
  • Kayaking "The Big Cypress" with Crocodlies
  • The Birth of The Jazz Guitarist
  • Gay Marriage
  • Garage Band - The 1960's
  • King Arthur, Pelagius and Original Sin
  • The Story of Ricky
  • Hidden Miami
  • I Hate the 60's: A Personal Rock Odyssey
  • Crocodiles and Alligators in Florida: Monsters in our Backyard
  • The Legend of Robert Pete Williams
  • Saturday Night At Big Tinys
  • The Case Of The Infinite Monkeys
  • The American Heritage Series
  • The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress
  • Blue And Green

                    Art or Reality

Picture
Artists love art. Why not. They’re artists. Meaning, they love themselves and those who share a like mind. All of us, no matter our priorities, peer out, into the world trying to decipher what we see. The surest thing we know is us. We feel for us. We relate to us, and those like us, probably because that’s how our brains work, even if we have very little real idea about how our brains actually work. But we think we know, and that’s all that matters.

I was reading some poetry and other writings by an edgy, former criminal, drug addict, whose writing was damned good. His insights powerful. His conclusions almost completely the product of a gifted, but screwed up individual. He looked deeply into the soul of his fellow men and women and concluded that the world sucked. If only the world worked like he thought it should, things would be better, fairer. If he’d never run a business, hired workers, successfully paid the salaries of people reliant upon him, he knew that he knew he was right, regardless. When all else failed he’d write a terrific poem and convince himself and others that he was correct.


This same person would decry the rise of fascism, even if he had no idea what fascism was. He could write a short piece filled with metaphor and symbolism, tricking his brain into agreeing with itself, regardless of the facts.


None of this should be a surprise. Art is largely metaphorical. At least the end product tends to be. But people aren't symbols, and ideas need to be workable, not simply noble in their intent. In the case of art, there is no bottom line more significant than the work itself. In war or economics, for instance, reality treads heavily. Metaphor can’t solve the greater social ills of society any more than a poem can, a good song, or an amazing guitar riff. But, for those doing the riffing, it represents a profound truth.


These competing differences represent a war of brain activity and personality types. Symbolism vs. facts, may be a better way of seeing things. Two and two do not become five because of a great rhyming scheme or a well written character. Not everybody who perceives the world as an artist, is an artist. To artists, however, the greater the art, the greater the artist, and since art is the end-game, the greater the individual.


Most artists won’t say this because it lacks empathy and sounds vaguely sociopathic. In a world of metaphor, however, anything can be anything.


This is not to say that numbers crunchers should rule the world, since numbers are not living, breathing creatures. And, the effects of emotionless numbers, visited upon humankind can be even crueler than the illusion of metaphor. A healthy world, then, combines the symbolic with the more complex reality, which the symbol points to. Not either or.


The gifted ex junky may have profound things to say, if understood correctly. Just as the coldly logical realist does. Charlie Parker, the brilliant, innovative jazz saxophonist and junkie could make stunningly beautiful, complex music, which was also intellectually rigorous as hell. I’d hate to have him as my congress person, though. A congressperson who digs Parker, but also understands how to get a road or bridge built—now, that’s a whole other animal—and a welcome one, too.

Mark Magula