ARTWHORE™

ARTWHORE ARTWHORE
ARTWHORE
Lauren M Amante

| PHOTOGRAPHER | ARTIST | FILM-MAKER | ACTOR | WRITER | SINGER | DESIGNER |
In a world of vast possibility, unfamiliar vague faces, fluorescent cityscapes, endless skies and abundant uncertainty, I am mislaid in my own mind all too easily. I fall for the slightest breeze of hope as if it were a storm. Reality is difficult to bear and fantasy lies tempting like the sharp point of an easy escape, but what happens when our minds are no longer ours? Do I dare say? I fear my answer may confound logic and sense with dissipated strands of the nonsensical reality that has led me so far astray. Take my hand as I fall down the spiral staircase inside me.
I am a masquerade of charades you concede and the veracity you silently disregard. I am a contradiction and a concord. I am an entity of fragmented identities. I am everything and anything you choose to perceive me to be. I am the veiled reflection of a condemning society. I am erasable and faceless to strangers who wisp by whispering in hushed tones that strangle my fragile throat like the reaper’s bones. There is madness in me that words cannot wrap themselves around.
What we call chaos is just patterns we haven't recognized. What we call random is just patterns we cant decipher. What we can't understand we call nonsense. What we can't read we call gibberish. There is no free will. There are no variables. There is only the inevitable.
Beauty is unbearable, drives us to despair, offering us for a minute the glimpse of an eternity that we should like to stretch out over the whole of time.
There is no way to be truly great in this world. We are all impaled on the crook of conditioning. A fish that is in the water has no choice that he is. Genius would have it that we swim in sand. We are fish and we drown.
You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life.
The unreal is more powerful than the real, because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine it. Because its only intangible ideas, concepts, beliefs, fantasies that last. Stone crumbles. Wood rots. People, well, they die. But things as fragile as a thought, a dream, a legend, they can go on and on.
A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.
A world which can be explained, even through bad reasoning, is a familiar one. On the other hand, in a world suddenly devoid of illusion and light, man feels like a stranger.
Happiness cannot be traveled to, owned, earned, worn or consumed. Happiness is the spiritual experience of living every minute with love, grace and gratitude.
A man's work is nothing but this slow trek to rediscover, through the detours of art, those two or three great and simple images in whose presence his heart first opened.
Generosity is nothing else than a craze to possess. All which I abandon, all which I give, I enjoy in a higher manner through the fact that I give it away. To give is to enjoy possessively the object which one gives.
The more you get to know me, the less you will understand, the more confused you will become.
A guilty conscience needs to confess. A work of art is a confession.
Existence precedes and rules essence.
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