Desire as a subject is highly problematic. The reason is very simple, it is so strong a force, and has such a personal effect that it overwhelms the ability of the artist to analyse. In the throes of desire the artist is helpless and cannot get his hands on the rudder. Creating art, as opposed to living life, is an out of body experience. Desire implodes self-consciousness. It draws one into oneself deeper and doesn’t leave the artist any freedom from the self that is essential to art. It is this distance from the self that lets the artist abstract and symbolise the things that he feels and experiences into something that is communicable. Of course how communicable or acccessible he makes his art is up to him, but art always communicates. Otherwise it is just private thoughts, or personal actions; merely, life.
From the very beginning, as early as I can reminisce to, I have been badly plagued by the quicksand-like urge of desire. It’s most powerful manifestation was and is towards women, towards girls. Then, secondly, to diginity. And, thirdly, to meaning. There are 83 such categories in strict order.
I have been avoiding thinking about desire for as long as I can remember. And I wouldn’t even breathe of it in whatever art I wanted to make. I felt that it was, that it is, a cliché. It is perhaps the most overdone, and badly done subject known to man. It is everywhere, and in everything. But there something askance in the state of Adnan. I fear that it may not be a topic that I can avoid. And since I cannot do anything purposefully below great, I fear that I have to invest a significant amount of blood and treasure into something which has such a high risk of failure. Of course, all this talk is defeatist, is pessimistic. It should be looked on as a great challenge. As the foundations of a masterpiece. But fuck that. I don’t want to get hurt. It’s all so boring. We’ve all bored our friends, and our friends in retaliation have bored us with tales of desire. It’s such an uncouth, low, maudlin subject. I won’t touch it. But I don’t have a choice. It’s a monkey on my back. Digging, scratching, spitting, and chirping. If I had a gun I’d shoot desire in the face.
And the secret is that it is not boring to me. It’s fascinating. The very universality of desire, and the desire to make art of desire that is attractive. It is under the crush of millions of rocks and and trillions of grains of sand that diamonds are made.
Desire did not, for example, start with advertising. You can see it in the cave etchings of the uncivilised. And even the great Winogrand couldn’t do it right in photography, even he, one of the most selective, most sensitive and discerning of photographers was no match. All the fashion photographers aren’t even trying to look at it critically, they are hedonistically jacking off (is there any other way to jackoff but hedonistically?). Something can be done here. Something critical. Something big. I will have to attempt it at some stage even if I get caught in the whirlpool and disappear.
As a beginning, I’ve started a piece trying to analyse my desire for women. What are the forces that are behind it? How does it manifest? I’ve started watching desire play out across the museums, metro stations, shopping malls, and parks all across Europe. I’ve learnt nothing yet. I know I run the risk of being labelled a pervert (well I am a pervert) but I will start to take photos of the things that have the scent of desire, the Madeleine. It won’t be easy and I may not be ready for awhile but there is no avoiding it. My psyche won’t leave me alone and neither will my ambition. But I feel like this will be a slow burner, it will take its time coming out, but this is an important first step. In even acknowledging it I feel like I’m going too far, exposing myself too much, or even committing to too much. I commit to nothing! I’m only fearful of the certainty that it is coming.
Posted 2 years ago
