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The art of futility

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  Creation doesn’t save. Art stabilises. That’s why art continues after belief has died. Not because it promises something— But because consciousness cannot stop itself. The will to create isn’t heroic. It’s involuntary. A reflex. The art of futility A spoken monologue I don’t make art because it matters. I make it because consciousness produces excess. And excess demands release. That’s the first lie we’re taught—that art points toward truth. Truth doesn’t need us. It existed before our gestures and will remain after our silence. Art isn’t revelation. It’s a regulation. An overdeveloped mind can’t remain idle. Thought accumulates. Pressure builds. Expression becomes a discharge—not a message. This isn’t noble. It’s biological. Paintings. Texts. Sounds. Images. All variations of the same maneuver. Not transcendence . Containment . Once you see this, ambition collapses. Influence. Legacy. Relevance. These are metaphysical debts art can no longer pay. The work is finished the moment...
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My favourite image of the Week 004

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Breakfast piece
Herbert Badham1936

https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/beta/asset/CAEJGudB0BW5Lw


There are multiple reference points
There are multiple perspectives
I am on the ladder
I am against the ceiling
I am standing in authority
I am not sitting with her
I am not with her
I must continually juxtapose

Within this disorientation, the arrangement is seemingly orderly
The painter, the authoritative who cannot decide
The seated lost within time and place
The pawn as the egg waiting on removal
Should I be more concerned with the flowers precarious standing on edge
Or the sense of a contained cell-like melancholy
A draughtsman at loss with the within presence






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