Today I got word that a friend and fellow artist committed suicide last Wednesday. Looking at her web site, it really makes me ponder the futility of it all. She made great work. She was a wonderful person.
I'm not feeling like a shitty friend that wasn't there for her - we hadn't seen each other in years - but I'm wondering about the function of art.
I feel that art is here for the extremely important purpose of transformation: transformation of society, pushing technology forward, personal transformation etc. Seeing her work, and how powerful it is, I really wonder about this basic assumption I have. I seek in my art a place of transformation, a place where I can work out the "yukky life stuff" that I'm not a fully realized human enough to deal with (yet?). And yet, someone who was a way better artist than I will ever be, didn't get enough out of the process of making art to not be able to save herself from the Stupid Ultimate Conclusion that we all face from time-to-time?
It makes the process feel futile. What the fuck is art for?
And, as such, there is no way out of terrible decision making, no working one's way out of one's problems, no path to sanity and centeredness.
And yet. Art is futile. That is one of it's joys. It does nothing measurable or concrete. Its effects are ephemeral on both the maker and the participant. Perhaps that's the answer. Maybe, for Virginia I should do an act of art that is completely futile and defiant of the darkness that will crush us all if we don't fight. Or just something ridiculous in her honor.
Rest well, talented classmate and friend. We will remember you with honor.
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