On the Acknowledgement of My Tiring Morbid Curiosity

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(Monet, Haystacks, 1890-91)

There is a thin line between seeing yourself develop an increasingly darker taste in what you like to see, and feeling like you're so desensitized that morbid curiosity is all that is left to stimulate you.

I don't think it is normal to see a violent protest, followed by the aftermath of war for a moment and then an advertisement for your favorite socks. No one has the time to acknowledge that; the next thing is already here to talk about. Coping by overwhelming yourself with external stimulus has become a world-wide sickness. 

I came across Keats' 1819 poem, Ode on a Grecian Urn recently:

And what deeply disturbed me is that I realized that I was missing a sense of appreciation that I knew was hiding somewhere deep within me. I felt like I was searching for it and coming up empty. And I think my - or our - social conditioning is why Keats' poem talking about the mystical paintings on a Grecian urn does not move me, even though it is one of his greatest works. But I am weirdly convinced that it would have moved me if I hadn't seen everything that I have. Perhaps the dopamine hit of watching a train-wreck is more instant than having to draw it out of something that is meant to be consciously artistic. Genuine appreciation is hiding under so many layers of irony that I'm forgetting if it's still left in me. 

I mean, Claude Monet painted a bunch of piles of hay in his neighbors yard for 2 years. And he did it 25 times. I would rather take cyanide than even think of doing something like that! But he did it for a reason - the haystacks were the perfectly bland canvas to capture the beauty of the sun at different times of the day; a commentary on the passage of time. I am jealous that I will never be able to attempt such a metaphor because I simply don't have the patience to do it; the next thing is already here to talk about.

And the sad thing is that I feel like everyone is silently thinking the same thing. The heroic quests of kings to build their empires have turned into wealthy businessmen fighting over numbers on an imaginary graph. Advertisements appeal to our longing for something metaphorical, and all that just for a profit number. As someone who is bored enough to look up from his phone, I think there is nothing left in world today to pull inspiration from. Is it perhaps better to finally turn on the 'personalized ads' from Amazon? To let go of the last bit of ego that makes me think that I am anything more than a lowly addict of consumerism? That my idea of self is somehow more special or valuable than the millions who don't have the time to care about it?   

I am forced now to look at the blades of grass or the pebbles along side a beach for that hit of "meaning". I don't want to be an existentialist, but I am doing it out of desperation. Believe me, there are much better things to be, but my mind has grown too tired to seek meaning in anything farther than the cool touch of a breeze or the slow rusting of an old metal fence. 

We went from imagery of angels in chapels to the realistic shades of dancers in dark ballrooms to a gross vandalistic joke of holier-than-thou messages in our art. I am only left with one question - where do we go from here? 

Location: Atlanta, GA, USA

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