Gurdjieff has divided art into two categories.
The modern art he calls subjective art. The ancient art — the real art —
the people who made the pyramids, the people who made the Taj Mahal,
the people who made the caves of Ajanta and Ellora, they were of a
totally different kind. He calls that art objective art. Subjective art
is like vomiting. You are feeling sick, nauseous; a good vomit helps you
to feel good. The poison is thrown out, you feel relieved. It is good
for you, but not good for others. Now, in the name of modern painting,
you are hanging vomited, nauseous, sickening things in your rooms. In
the name of modern music you are simply getting into crazier spaces
within you. It is subjective art. Modern
art is childish — not childlike, remember, childish; not innocent but
stupid, insane, pathological.
"Amongst millions of the poor, Shakyamuni was son of the rich. His father, the king, gave him all: a palace surrounded by wonderful gardens, the best foods, luxurious clothing, the most beautiful bride, hundreds of servants. Locked up in his luxury prison, he did not know the servants misery. All of the sudden, like a little bird that fell on his head, the futur buddha, just like a girl, was taken by a panic attack... Reality was not what he believed it to be!
"But says Alice, if the world makes absolutely no sense,
what keeps us from inventing one?"
I need fresh air. After 3 months of meditation, sitting in the same room, I need the body to get back in action. Fuck zen, fuck meditation, I ain't a monk, I join the world again and I need action. So I take the car, turn up the radio and I drive south. Direction: unknown. I first stop by some friends, the body wakes up. Dishes under the rain and wind, a bit of work in the garden, speak with a girlfriend, it feels good. A few days laters, back in the car for another friends visit. This time it's party time. We eat, drink and pass the joints. Wake up for more drinking, moments of smoky oblivion, time stops, it's artificial paradise. A few days are spent in perfect harmony with the sunsets. A night by the fire, we dance under the stars, we put our heads on drunken knees. It's good and that's enough. I make a tattoo, then 2, then 3, a bit of blood, we carve memories to better remember that it all will pass. We start building a new tippie, enjoy work together. 1,2,3 lift up that star for the roof on top of our heads.