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a creative life

  dwelling with artistic intimacies
gary e. davis
March 13 , 2019
 
 
So ordinary, yet—if you think about it—so uncanny, if not surreal: a viewer stance through a video window, a camera’s nearness to two persons displayed in private, as if there’s no voyeur close enough for them to hear your breathing. Actors ignore the camera, of course. We all pretend to be omniscient witnesses, like gods.

And the camera shifts privacies to give the viewer a secret sense of connections, The Story, that the characters never say (if they even realize) across narrated time—though often the artistry of dialogue has characters recounting parts of their story to each other, as if they’re as clueless about what’s happened as the viewer is ignorant of the time between scenes.

That images (as transitive verb) what storiation has done for as long as there have been sagas: to have godly embodiment in others’ lives and assurance that life coheres across all boundaries, be it Self of oneself, an eros of transgression,
a tragic resolve, comic resignation, romantic passion, eerie irony.

And we get this assurance from the intimacy of access to the unwittingly displayed others (except in self-begetting narrative or solioquy; or the actor looking into the lens).

We love vicarious intimacy as somehow ours, too. We want to feel an eros of resonance in personal presence that disloses hidden reality, especially vulner-abilities of the life hidden by polite society.

Artists of disclosure and intimacy display by design what will bring voyeurs to buy in, thus to afford the life that is really no one’s business, but for the living, for displaced authorship that holds us (so otherwise unheld enough), or for memoir that sells and biography earning someone else stature.

Oh, we so want to embody love lives of the artists, their intimacy of creative partnership.

“Love our literary gardening, our ease of interpsychal flow in high scale interplay between and within us.”

Yet, does the reader/viewer want to know divine madness of a life beyond imagining?

Oh, yes.

Give them mad love, echoing through erotic faculties a high game.

However, I’ve moved on.

 


<—philographical notes | literary sensibility—>

 

 

 

 

 

 
  Be fair. © 2019, gary e. davis