For some decades art has focused on a realism that hits much closer to home than anything before. It could be a throwback to the medieval memento mori mindset, or only a highlight of artifice in our daily lives. Though what if that realism is an essential ingredient in closing the loop of pointless existence?
There is present a clash between contemporary art and Western culture, because, in their purest form, white-walled museums and galleries offer nothing but a moment of meditation. The white-walls functioning as an empty mind, the art as a kōan. The European mindset is answer-driven, always on the lookout for absolute solutions, and contemporary art simply fails to deliver in this field. Contemporary art is notorious for its tendency to avoid any strict definition. Perhaps art is more akin to Easter thought, as they both acknowledge the improbability of an absolute.
Globalisation has caused us to become strangers, even to ourselves. We try to give ourselves some form of personality, by dressing up, or acting out, but to no avail. We remain as abstract as Rorschach inkblots. Open to interpretation, a projection screen for other strangers to project their desires onto. It’s almost as if in a world where others decide who you are, a sense of self becomes a privilege of the famed. But we all know that’s only half true.
We are constantly confronted with this disruption of our personal reality. In this case it’s not about what we see, but why we see – or experience – just that. The personal discourse is accurately deceived through a pre-established framework of authority, derived from the predictive nature of the self-image; ultimately framing a parallel discourse that in itself forms the reflective space we so much desire.