Saturday, July 30, 2011

№ 30. Animated Saturday

They're art born from relatively new and still evolving media. But the processes, I can imagine, require almost the same mindful creativity, vortex of resources, obsessive reach for perfection and marrow-seeping tedium as the genius behind Sistine Chapel.

Sometimes, just seeing the result, without the necessary but painful process, makes us forget of what it takes to create a gem. Is pain a necessary assumption for genius? Will art be denied its fruition without the fuel of misery? Is it really true that the boost of agony or the burn of acid at the seams of the tortured soul may propel the next breach in the limits of quantum physics? Should creators and their kind be unhappy? Otherwise, no art. Nada.

Well, assuming they already have the gift of genius, why else should they have access to a torrid sex life, right? Or at least a gum-pink healthy love life? What more do they need?

Natural law is pretty fair in managing significance. The universe, it is an immutable truth,  has to carefully dispense with equilibrium. Or else, the earth will tilt just further from the imbalance. I don't know if we want to survive that!

If you're happy, good. You go lead a quiet, undistinguished and suburban life. You're relegated to the task of propagating the species. Be ordinary. Yes? No doubt.

If you've built-up an internet empire with more cash flow than most third world countries, you're probably geeky, toothy, plain vanilla and will drone off like Zuckerberg in your strategic briefings. Damn it, it's a categorical imperative!

You should have no resources left for anything monumental that will create rifts in genres. Leave that to the poor, unfortunate few, who have nothing else to consume their lives with. They have oceans of angst, loneliness and unreleased bedroom frustrations to create new "isms", realms of matter, schools of thought, organisms, paradigms, theorems, inventive steps, chromatic scales and, maybe, a few more naughty sutras. The more unarticulated and pent up the id, the better potential for heights of humanistic expressions. There is no fitting sacrifice on the altar civilization.

Besides, where's the romance in a well-mannered Jobs with the sartorial chops of Armani waxing about his next glass and aluminum oeuvre? Too much, we say with bile bitterness. Where's the justice in that?!

We want an image of a deaf, stinky and alienated loon pounding away at the keyboard for his sublime 9th. He had his glorious symphonies and piano sonatas but, by God, he can't conceivably have more! Deny him his sanity and social graces, at least! It is but fair.

Hell, I'm just a middle manager suffering my Japanese car and struggling with my Spanish degustastion. And I haven't even published a seminal work of porn. At 25! In three years, skin and flesh will no longer glow with eros. Uggh.

I have digressed.

But I think you get the 2 A.M. rant. My caffeine drip is now wearing off....

To create this stop-motion work, the balloons were fastened to a rail which went the length of two football fields. The popper traveled at a rate of 600 balloons per minute. 

Hmmm. Too much prep and hard work, he must be one unlucky dude. He missed half year's worth of Sunday brunches, afternoon delights and Conan's soul healing spiels. Pity. *Smug* 

See Imprint.

This one? 

See that guy working past sanity just for a smooth transition of frames. How many bottles of Caronias again? Sniff, sniff. He's bereft of social life.

Sweetie, hand me the alligator clips and that paddle, will ya? Let's get ready to rrrrumble....

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