I once heard that art is most beautiful when imitateing life . I never understood this; imitation infers a falsehood, a lack of authenticity. Art can only be what it is, unapologetically,It can’t build a facade. I ,the one who is deemed alive, lie habitually to those around me and worse my self. I am a performer playing the part of least resistance and greatness propitiation. Solitarily contemplating a collective I want to both develop beyond the horizon or envelop in the flames of a star. conundrums are the base of these self destructive edifice. Best escape is outside of self, either on the wall in the air or on a shelf.
Now who imitates who, When One feels most real imitating art?