Work of Art and Inspirations : A Late Night Argument

Night past 12, I was indulged in a water color, quite unknowing what is next going to happen in my canvas. Colors were shading and fading in my palette and the picture alike. Initially my intention was to use my brushes only in vertical strokes. I succeeded to a greater extent up to the middle. But as the colors began to dominate my senses, I gave my self to the freedom of the stokes. Vertical strokes became rectilinear  curves became horizontal sweeps, horizontals become horizons. And it went on to become a collection of a lot of lines, colors, shapes and shades.

My interest is not on the end product called an art work, but on the process of creating a painting  How are the lines leading the work of art to some specific direction? Is there a sense of beauty that leads and directs lines to take certain shapes or position. Is beauty an end in itself. Why should an art form be so much obsessed with beauty and its nuances. I feel that beauty is just an immediate realization of an artistic process. 

Art and artist transcends the demands of beauty by a necessity and urge to create a logical formation of lines, shades, edges, curves, depths and so on. This in a way leads lines to take more complex forms. When I had a lot of places in paper, lines had a different grammar and syntax. When the colors dominated the canvas, colors were more subtle and nimble. Thus I believe an art and artist is inspired by the totality of the conception than the urge of a pleasing experience of beauty.

+Gokul Alex 

New Languages of Mind : Beyond Philosophy and Fiction

Philosophy and fiction, it began with an attempt to negate the existence of philosophy. 
Is it a dead cat? Will it come up again and again with nine lives ? How will we posit philosophy in the quest for knowledge. Is it always congruent with the inquisitiveness to find what is truth? For sure, this question can never be philosophical in life. It can be ideological but I will have to rational in that attempt. 

Coining an allegory of a dead cat with philosophy, one of my psycho-analytic encounter is described as below. 

A corridor of myself
A window where I hug and hung my shadows
I am there again
With cats dead and with nine lives

Cat in his selfish tone said ...
I am born again to die
She smiled and murmured
A dead cat is just born again

She saw those words in a dream. Voices that speak themselves. Words into voices, thoughts bleeding themselves. Words into shells and snails of mind. As if they are leaving their ocean and hunting her down.

A dead cat, neither black nor white; it is having a mesh of letters all around its body. Those words look engraved in its body. It smiled her through eyes and cried aloud through its lovely small cheeks.

Again and again, she is seeing dead cats in her dream. She saw them while standing in the long queues, sitting in lone gardens, walking up and down irritating stairs and so on. Dreams that she see awakened. She is not sure what is real and what is not. I would like to omit the expression surreal because it has some tint of real in it. Now she begins to ask how can she see a dead cat and a stream of words together in a dream. She ask herself  is dreaming an act or an act of denying truth or not at all an act in itself? She took a pen and started hunting down the dead cats and paper tigers.

In the nakedness of truth
A lie is born
In the weakness of my genes
My death cells are born
In the hatred of my body
My mind begins to bleed
In the cavities of my heart
My flowers begins to bloom
In the boundaries of my lies

She laughed aloud and smiled at those shadows. She tore those papers into pieces. She wed the thickness of her summer blanket and started her cat race. In the dilating moments of her eyelids, those cats vanished in dream planes. Into their own space times ...