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“...work of art, etc.”
september 16, 2009

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After the blog post “valuing,” the next morning, he was sure he’d ended that with ‘a work of art’ rather than ‘work of art.’

“It mattered. So I had to drop the ‘a’.”

But there’d been no ‘a’.

The working of an art: career, like a calling (without pretentiousness, one hopes).
It’s marriage, it’s a way of life.

Yeah, well, it’s pretentious to narrate yourself.”

I guess.


I don’t need to prove my analytical acuity, but it’s philosophically important to keep fidelity to such valuing, which I won’t dwell with here. “Valuing,” Sunday, expressed that ongoing character of myself—“side of my character”?

No, I distinguish Self and character, like distinguishing the characters of companionship, careerist (“The Professional”), and absent-minded wanderer. They may each be richly self-understood enough that they’re full-bodied persons to their relevant others, yet all belonging to one life. And each’s others may have little to say to each other’s others; e.g., what do kindred wanderers have to say to Professionals?

Reflecting on one’s character may be to find one’s characters, at least as someone who
can’t be wholly the character reflecting; otherwise, there’d be no possible distantiation,
no reflectivity as such. One stands apart from the other, a part of the other; apart from oneself, a part of one self.

To learn myself—countless vinings ‘round knitted time, endless as long as I’m alive—is to explore my narratability, like the fictionist who keeps unhappiness there by writing here.
So, “there” is merely reflecting here?

One may see accurately what’s really there, to some degree (“O, he struggled terribly over the extent of ‘some’”). Then, there’s an issue of distinguishing what’s really seen from what’s myself—shadowing (some Muse, some madness) the character of what’s really there.

So, in a genesis of telling, born of itself through one, there and here may at first be singular auratic resonance, maybe numinous, a productively confused infusion of discerning what’s really there through what’s apparently here, then clearing a difference and thereby consolidating oneself really, in relation to the real world (that others might wish one didn’t distinguish).

Meanwhile, questions of art are an endless venture, whose character issues like billowy fog from whatever educes billowing (mind, history?). Artlessness (lame pretension and persona) in that is inevitable, like real weeds to flowering; and must be pruned (flowering repotted, character redressed).

One character pursues logical issues in conceptual writing, like any other kind of concern for well-formedness; fails some, succeeds some; moves on. An other lives out some narrative pretense to be poetic, venturing to do so truly someday—meanwhile, tangling in vines of proffered discernment.

To wind one way well is to lose others. To wind many ways well is to maybe lose everyone.

So be it. I am all the more alive in the prospecting— which I’ll call autotelic dwelling, in accord with a leading researcher on creativity who explicates “the autotelic personality,” a topic I shall grow.

 

 


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