collegiate diversion

Why is it so difficult to convey the message of happiness over the message of sadness in art?

You presented to me tonight, the realization that so much of art is pure angst. Like those photo catalogs, you said. And I know what you mean. It’s like, a photo of a can of soup next to a plate of meat. This is not depressing at all. Until you put that artistic-bullshit-spin on it. Then the picture becomes an existential masterpiece that transposes metaphysical dimensions through personification. Now it’s like the meat wishes it could be canned, or the can feels the pain of not being free, and desires to become that nice slab of meat on the counter.

Or, there’s the fall back depressing artistic statement that become quasi-intellectual, semi-political: food shouldn’t be processed. And canned. It should be fresh, and pure and oh, so mighty.

I mean, really, think about it: so much of art is inherently designed to be depressing. Example? MAD = SAD = BAD. These words, they all rhyme together.

And what rhymes with happiness? Sappiness (which is plain useless), snappiness (which would be awful on paper), and crappiness. But there, look we’ve taken a turn, the inevitable ccle of slippery word that brings us back to the same loathsome expression.

Why is it so easy? But more importantly, we should wonder, is sadness easy at all?

Because, let me tell you, I pour my pain out. Hard, ON paper, IN written word. Through my personal essays. And if you think it’s easy, you just don’t what’s going on in this brain…

OR, am I taking the easy way out?

Example?

I write a nice love letter to my boyfriend, and feel retarded. Simple. Plain. Fact.

How pathetic.

And we’ve taken a turn for the worse again. Easy.

So here’s the issue, I have writer’s block these days, and maybe that’s because I cannot find anything sad to write about. I mean, are you kidding? Is like that ridiculously ironic?

“The worst thing being an artist could do to you is that it would make you slightly unhappy constantly.”-Salinger

Okay J.D., so now I’m not cool because I’m not angsty.

Why do we seek help when we need it? Why write the therapeutic-anger poem-when you’re angry? What about the therapeutic-happy poem? And why the hell am I bothering with these rhetorical questions?

Ah, and so the writer’s block continues.

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