Zero's Artist Manifesto (First Draft)

     I began this piece not too long ago by hand. It was of great importance to me and remains as such. I wished to discuss art and the artist much like Oscar Wilde does in his Preface of "The Picture of Dorian Gray". However, my own discussion is longer than his at first glance. I must give credit where it is due, and Mark Molnar, a professor at Heritage College, provided me with the inspiration for some of these points. A few of them have been stated by him in the classroom, but I feel that I have done no justice to him in relating the lessons on art that he has attempted to teach us.

      It should be noted that not only is this incomplete and in the editing process, but it is also not discussing the nature of only the visual artist or the musical artist. Ideally, these statements apply to all forms of artists, whether they be of the written word, the visual arts, or the performing arts.

     Before I end this preface of a sort, I must remind you, the reader, that you may post comments at the bottom of the post. For this specific post, I ask that if you have something to add to my list, then post it and make me aware of it. It is always nice to have another set of eyes look it over. Do enjoy and take care. Until next time,

-Zero

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• Never strive to simply be better than another. If you do so, you will only ever be better than they are. You must create to the best of your ability.
• That which is unexpressed, whether it be an emotion or an idea, is not, by any means, lesser than that which has been expressed.
• Art should not be judged as good or bad based upon what it is expressing. It is how it is expressed that matters.
• The artist must take responsibility for what the artist has created.
• The idea can never be expressed as well as the artist wanted it to be. In this sense, all artists fail. Strive to fail the least.
• No work of art is moral or immoral. The guiding ideas, however, may inspire immorality, or morality. Alas, even the most noble ideas can bring evil.
• Art is not a competition, nor is it a race. All artists must move at their own paces, otherwise the quality of their expressions may fade.
• No artist can, or should, separate from themselves to be completely objective. Perspective is everything. No artist should forsake their own unique perspective.
• First and foremost, art is an expression of self, whether the self being expressed is a group of people, or the artist his/herself.
• The artist is a filter.
• The artist is a sponge.
• Both the real and the imaginary are legitimate sources of inspiration.
• The way in which one views a work of art is reflective of his/her person.
• The way to something, regardless of what it is, is never through the thing itself.
• The best expressions are simply that, expressions.
• No art movement is greater than another. Rather, the expressions produced within varying movements may be greater than other expressions.
• No artist has forever to create. Thus, the artist must utilize his/her time well.
• The artist is a necessary component to humanity.
• Art can change the way in which people think and act.
• There is always good art being made. One simply has to look.
• There is no correct way to create.
• No person is the same. Likewise, no artist is the same. A variety of perspectives creates a rich culture and rich art.
• The artist who creates art that is biographical should expect people to read their work as such. This can be dangerous.
• The reason that leads one to create art does not matter, so long as the reason does not interfere with the quality of the expression.
• The term 'art' is not exclusive for higher quality expressions. Even a child's drawing is art, however low the quality of expression is.
• Art that is truly worth one's time should be shared and preserved.
• Do not judge a work of art by its artist.
• Do not judge an artist by his/her art.
• In all works of art, regardless of how wretched it may be, there is an element of true beauty, however small.
• On being criticized, the artist, with a head of reason, should challenge the criticism and, should it have good reasons behind it, grow from it. If the criticism has no reasonable ground, it should be disregarded. It is a sign the critic has failed most dearly.
• Talent plays a very small role in achieving a greater quality expression. Time, determination, dedication, and passion are far more important.
• Clichés should be created, not used, in the expressions of art. The great express ideas in such a way that all follow in their footsteps.
• The greatest expressions do not simplify the ideas beyond that which is reasonable. Complicated ideas require complicated expression.
• Sometimes the most needed expression of ideas is rejected by many. The artist should express these ideas (so long as the ideas are his/her own) regardless of opposition.
• Critics who resort to ad hominem have failed society and should be disregarded or refuted. Criticisms of a work of art that do not deal with the work of art itself are counter-productive.
• Art causes and fuels revolutions in thought.

-Zero

Sky-Cement

       “Call these images forth for these fools! Allow bloody earth and sap-filled veins to enter their eyes! No cauldrons bubble, but they crumble! A wicked king's head babbles nonsense from their twisted innards! Establish now the walls, those consisting of the limbs of the fallen, around and above those who dare cast us out! Snare them in our power! Keep them silenced!”

       The skies are blocked by soft pavement. The disturbing lack of thunder acts as a coffin for those who fear it. Thoughts of being struck down by the sound corrupt their minds and cement their aversion to the world beyond their shelter. From within what they call a tavern, they discuss all it is that they believe to know. If they waited for true understanding, they would never speak.

       “Weird. It's just weird. These clouds look heavy enough to crush our hopes and dreams, so why isn't it raining?” The stranger questions those who are familiar. He is known as Sarazin and is, in fact, a native to the place. His birth occurred in the backroom of the kitchen, which mainly consisted of drunks who were unable to walk home. His mother was one of them. For some time, it was told to him that he is blessed by the gods, that they rescued him. But none witnessed the birth. His mother had come into nothingness in bringing him into being, and the others were not conscious of the event. His story is known to all across the town, and yet, he remains a stranger still.

       “The gods are angry at us! Did you not see them upon the hill?” One of the familiars of the tavern responds with sickening certainty. The familiar, a tall male worshipper with no distinguishable features, gazes upon Sarazin in search of weakness. All the familiar finds is individuality. Sarazin is only slightly shorter than the other, but carries upon himself a much larger body. To most it seems that his body purely consists of fat, as opposed to possessing muscle. But most, as usual, are mistaken. Sarazin had once lifted weights for entertainment. Some of the strength he obtained during that time still remains.

       “They're just mortals like us. Don't be silly.” As Sarazin's lips move to allow the projectiles of the tongue shoot out, his scar is condensed against his eyelid. The pinkish mark is a result of Sarazin's graveyard work. His task is simple. He simply has to wait for the dead ringers to awake. Before he began, they were less common, but now they are more common. The scar was formed when his shovel was thrown at him by a mourner of a soon to be dead ringer. When the haunting sound resonated through the graveyard, the mourner ceased all actions. Sarazin rushed to his shovel and supposed the mourner wished to save his friend, but instead, the familiar screamed at him to leave it be. A simple movement sent the shovel into Sarazin's face, leaving nothing but the scar between his right eye and upper lip. Whispers of the hurtful sort occurred commonly involving his scar. When his ears caught the said waves, he simply disregarded it.

       Back in the present, the tall familiar steals a step away from the one different from all others. “Leave us! You'll bring doom upon us all!” The same one screams, his voice bounding with fear. He shoves at Sarazin and attempts to throw him out of the run-down tavern. Failure haunts his thin size. The stranger does not do battle with the familiar. In slow, honest, movements, he collects his things. He places his large black round hat with low bending ends over his shining bald head. The external light is cut off from his eyes. The internal remains.

       No condensed and broken pieces of the sky-cement tumble to the ground. The form remains stiff and unmoving, but time shatters all things. The town cannot be seen, except for a few lit windows, coming from small shacks characteristic of the ruled. Sarazin's hard leather boots come upon the stone paths that were grass before they came. Time wore the grass to dirt, and those of the hill had the familiars place the stones to create the illusion of domination over the ticking. His blackened coat brushes the tavern door to a partial clean. The filth remains. It always does.

       All Sarazin can truly distinguish from the familiar darkness is the candle of power. Around it stands its slaves, those who cursed the town. No more than a broken whisper comes from their lips. It snares them in place for the stranger to overthrow them. Each step is a letter that combines with the last. Each slow and drawn-out breath is a space between the words. The message is clear to those on the hill, but it is black ink to him. They know the words and he understands the meaning.

       Flight may be a viable option for those huddled around the thin spark of power, but the sky-cement hangs over them as well. Sarazin slowly and carefully writes out the letter. Occasional steps signify periods. The final period comes and goes. Their letter of resignation has been written. He faes the short and skinny men, who possess no physical attributes that are greater than Sarazin's. Their dress is one of formality and business, not of practicality. ]

       The stranger bends over and hushes the flame into permanent sleep. The sky breaks apart and cackles with amusement. The liquid cement of the body falls onto the four silent men.

       It has been done.

-Zero