Often we think of artists and poets in idealized terms, believing them to be sensitive to the world where we are not. They are pioneers in a limitless landscape. A delicate poem about a red wheelbarrow is revealed as a commentary about art and life itself. A diagram of dots or even more wildly creative, a urinal sparks the universal 
consciousness and unites us as one artistic soul. Artists are martyrs, suffering for their ideas. Poets are slaves to their emotions. They wallow in puddles of their genius.
But it is not sensitivity that shields them from the harsh mediocrity of our world. They confront criticism with a resounding cry of, “You just don’t get it.” And perhaps some of us don’t. Perhaps some of us don’t want to get it. Instead, some of us seek the wisdom of our ancient archetypes that do not include urinals or neon paint cans. Perhaps we look deeper, beyond the veil of one’s self absorption in hopes of finding a universal truth. Let the children play and drink in their narcissism. The rest of us will search for real artists.
The ancient Greeks studied the movement of the human body in their love of sculptures. The turn of the head and the twist of a torso in perfect mathematical proportion created works of art that not only beautified a rich landscape but celebrated 
the human form. Aristotle spoke of art as beneficial to society as it promoted the notion of catharsis. The audience is consumed with a performance, able to live out their desires on stage. One can kill or make love without the effort or battle. One can feel terror and despair regardless of one’s personal tragedy. One’s physical excitement writhed in their bodies until it was released. He believed this was important, not only to the human experience but productive to mankind. During the turn of last century, Lillian Gish, the legendary silent film star, endured “extreme conditions such as starvation, intense heat and bitter cold” (lilliangish.com) in her obsession to portray an honesty in her characters. Ever the suffering artist, she collapsed due to anemia during the production of A Good Little Devil (lilliangish.com).
And yet today the human experience has been replaced by the emptiness of convenience. The mere image of an artist with dyed, choppy hair and a slather of tattoos is all one needs to elude to talent. A borrowing of ideas or even a few original nuggets with no hint to action or a rambling of thoughts plastered in ‘zines is enough to satisfy an apparently meager appetite. One might come to the conclusion that our souls are lost among the throngs of accessibility and apathy. Optimism is not my strongest point and yet I can only hope that our apathy is merely a temporary coma.
To look on our history and the glorious labors of love from our past, can we honestly say we have more to offer now? Are the myriad of narcissistic rantings of spoiled children and the scribbles of self important artists truly what we have to offer the world? Perhaps we have run out of original truths or we have become fat in our complacency in the ease of our Romanesque civilization. Why create when we can merely steal or “borrow” from another? Our souls have become static, dismissed by the quiki-art of our culture. We have descended into the depths of laziness, waiting for salvation to arrive in an Easy Button.
