Sysyphus

A major textual question begged in Black List Section H was the definition of art. What is true art? The authorial voice criticized Yeats for accepting poetic awards, saying something to the effect that it is not honor that becomes a poet but disgrace.

Once a poet is honored for his art, he ceases to be unconscious in its creation. Not that a poet--or any artist for that matter--can ever truly be free from the consciousness of audience, but there is a certain extra blockade which comes along with the realization that your art actually has an audience and it isn't just being sent into the great world of words, words, words beyond.

Is true art then that which is unrefined? A happy cosmic accident?

I think perhaps it is. Exceptional art can only occur once. As in Oscar Wilde's short story "The Fisherman and His Soul", once The Beautiful is experienced and pursued, it can never be further from you. Its beauty comes in that it is an unconscious reactionaryness to the world within and around.

That is not to say that beautiful things cannot be created, though. It is, rather, a distinction between true art and craftsmanship. A craft can be learned and perfected, but  it also carries with it the sense that it has been crafted intentionally instead of being born. It is flawless or flawed with thought. Something born bears the marks of  its imperfect creation. No less lovely (perhaps more so) but evident in its unrefinement.

I heard recently that we spend our whole lives rewriting the first poem we ever loved. We pursue that chilling  connection between words and soul. That moment, and not the poem itself is art in its purest form. An unpracticed reaction. The search to revise is a search for the same sentiment.

Maybe then craftsmanship cannot be true art but it can beget true art in others. I like that thought. It gives all the searching and collateral creation worth aside from its intrinsic good.