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Powdered Saxophone Music

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Jarod Kintz

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“This is what I’ve learned: The art is greater than you and your feelings. You have to serve it. It is not you. Some people will never understand that, but you need to surround yourself with people who do understand it. And you need to understand it yourself. Whatever you’re creating may come from within you and your life, but then—almost like a child, it comes out of your body and it grows up and walks away. It walks away and affects other people you don’t know and have never met. That’s the beauty of it, and the reason I keep trying new things. You never know who it will effect.”

“This theory of beauty is not developed with respect to artefacts alone, but universally. It is independent of taste, for it is recognized that as Augustine says, there are those who take pleasure in deformities. The word deformity is significant here, because it is precisely a formal beauty that is in question; and we must not forget that "formal" includes the connotation "formative." The recognition of beauty depends on judgment, not on sensation; the beauty of the æsthetic surfaces depending on their information, and not upon themselves, Everything, whether natural or artificial, is beautiful to the extent that it really is what it purports to be, and independently of all comparisons; or ugly to the extent that its own form is not expressed and realized in its tangible actuality. The work of art is beautiful, accordingly, in terms of perfection, or truth and aptitude as defined above; whatever is inept or vague cannot be considered beautiful, however it may be valued by those who "know what they like.”

“The Germans and Carlyle have perverted both thought and phraseology when they made the Artist the term for expressing the highest order of moral and intellectual greatness. The older idea is the truer- that Art, in relation to Truth, is but a language. Philosophy is the proper name for that exercise of the intellect which enucleates the truth to be expressed. The Artist is not the Seer; not he who can detect truth, but he who can clothe a given truth in the most expressive and impressive symbols.”

“Museums of primitive art are filled with masks, figurines, bas-relief sculptures, all looted from all over the world and robbed of their meanings. For those who created them, life resided not in the object itself, but rather in the spirit that inspired it. A corpse, even one artistically entombed, is still a dead body. They are no longer works of art, but simply objects. They are beautiful, whereas they should be alive, From time immemorial, humans have sculpted to magnify their gods. There is a reason why some religions are against any depiction of their gods while others are committed to the practice. There is some form of highly human insolence in recreating the god that created you, and there is a risk of adoring the tangible representation in itself instead of the discarnate deity. That is what sculpture is: both a tribute and a challenge to the gods. Some spiritualities tolerate this ambivalence, others don't. Others yet use representations to further tighten control over their flock and guarantee their submissiveness. They select the artists and dictate the dogma they should represent. Sculpture is both the easiest and the most delicate of art forms. It is more than just hewing a form out of a compact block, or reproducing a model: you have to breathe life into It. That is not something you can learn or improvise. There is always some part of yourself that you infuse into the material. In our modern world, where art is a business like any other, techniques are taught, but the magic, on the other hand, is still a gift, midway between bliss and suffering.”

“He got out a sapphire mark for light, avoiding pools of water strewn with bones. A skull protruded from one, wavy green moss growing across the scalp like hair, lifespren bobbing above. Perhaps it should have felt eerie to walk through these darkened slots alone, but they didn’t bother Kaladin. This was a sacred place, the sarcophagus of the lowly, the burial cavern of bridgemen and spearmen who died upon lighteyed edicts, spilling blood down the sides of these ragged walls. This place wasn’t eerie; it was holy.”