The purpose of living is surely to stand for something: to march under the banner of a lofty ideal, though one should stumble and watch his standard fall; to carry forth a mighty legacy, yet suffering the whips and scorns that it endures through the tunnels of time; to juggle the keen and pointy instruments of satire while remaining free of injury, to summon up a universe of thought for each to be a traveller within. These are noble projects all, but I catch upon the last which now stands but luringly in my reach...

The long pursuit of art is a ceaseless hammering with "blut und eisen"--for what could cover its dimensions but a Bismarckian term--which when done right, bears out our thoughts to the edge of doom, to earth's long sleep, to Nature's final rest. For how live we but through the memories of other men, of whom we know nothing? Mr. Palahniuk sets out this great truth in spartan style, "We all die. The goal is not to live forever, the goal is to create something that will." I am challenged today to refine the concept of my art, as a process which involves defining the true nature of myself, the artist. 

A great artist is one that is not ever conscious of his art, because it is an organic part of him, an extension of his being. he does not really perform or create in a deliberate manner, but allows the spectator to enter and discover his world. The audience sees his life as it truly is, because he lives it and has become so invested and involved in it that his natural place belongs there, even beyond the wide world where biology governs his mortal existence. There should be nothing exaggerated or phony as the artist goes about in the world of his creation, creating and uncreating what is past and here and yet to come. 

So what is it in a man, or woman, that attests to genius and wears excellence as its native emblem then? Where is found the organic brilliance which puts successive ages to shame? That is a question I hope to answer in my next post.