The Art of Fire

For many long years I felt separated from the world of art. I didn't dare, though I've always craved, to partake fully in the exchange of emotions, fearing to throw a plank across the river to start building a bridge between myself and others.

Art in its rawest is the flow of energies, sparks of animalistic urges transformed by the human form into a lake of fire, which burns bright, hurts, but will not consume you; no, no, this fire is divine and will cleanse you, if you approach it with the eyes of your soul, unclouded by greed, or envy, or any other vices that I believe are by-products of yet another type of pain; pain caused by thousands of years of exploitation and repression. Without fear, if you approach it, this everlasting lake of passion, you, like air, will carry the coals to others – through the calm waters of our collective rationale, into the heart of another you'll carry the flames of feelings, not yours alone, but the collection of those lived by many before you.

And in this dance of life, this fire of spirit, I have finally sank my trembling hands; and the joy of rebirth still shakes me. I am throbbing and pulsating with the ancestral memory, the messages of old, the lore from which the dust has been blown away, by the storm of many souls, like mine, like yours. This art of fire is far from being sterile, though ultimately it purifies the air. There is no censorship of this true art, and the pain it may cause is the uprooting of the old, decaying, putrid sensibilities that have been sowed by the hand of those who dared to proclaim themselves the masters. There never is a master in the world of the divine art – the artist is, but a tool, the speaker, the seer, he may be; the audience is but the coals, the ashes, brought together by the collective flames of something that we used to be fearful of, and that we may be closer to understanding now. There is no cost, no production of the art that may be calculated, rationalized, reckoned by mind alone.

And how deep is the wound of the oppressed art! Art has been raped, its limbs torn off, its entrails exhumed and coldly analyzed by the merciless spectacles of the capital. Under the microscope of profit has art began to rot, to desecrate itself by the fumes of decomposition. With its frostbitten hands has capital lifted off the operation table, the specks and glitters of the dying art, and claimed: “Here! This is it! The essence of art has been understood! It will now be turned into a machine of everlasting profit!”

And this monstrous machine, this mutant of the ghost of art, is now exploited, beaten, half dead, bleeding fire out of its orifices. It is sold on every corner, offered in neat colorful packages, delivering whatever it is the target demographic may desire. Teenage rebellion? Midlife crisis? Broken heart, relationship gone awry? 5:99, only 5:99! We have it all, no need to seek out a shaman drum, it's all ready to go, grab and go; how efficient, how convenient! Buy art, art is for sale! What's the next hot hit?

And our hearts might have been fooled by the masquerade of meticulously crafted, carefully selected, random bits of flesh of fiery art, its true nature extinguished, its soul dead. And if you have rejected the plastic exterior of the fake art of today, you may have, like me, for years feared to admit it. You may have longed for true art, this raw, this unstoppable force of nature within us, this universal drive, this reckless jump into the lake of fire; yet you've feared.

And if you have it left in you, I urge you, I implore, throw away this plastic imitation of the art. Throw a plank across the river or reason. Walk, unsteadily, to the shore of the lake. Look into the red depths of it, see with the eyes of your soul. And one day, you too, will dare to spark the flame within your soul.