Saturday, October 31, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Reality = Perception
I'm taking a writing class at PNCA (Pacific Northwest College of Art) for "fun" and mostly because I can't stand being out of school. I'm also tackling a style of writing I've never really done before, or felt comfortable with. It's a bit more creative; we use both literary and visual references--poetry, photography, paintings, and short stories--to inspire our own writing. I'm barely into it, but so far I love it. And coincidentally, there are a few other students who have recently completed degrees in other creative fields (painting, film studies) who realized their real gift and love was with writing.
Last night in class we wrote, on the spot, for five minutes in reaction to an image of a person set in some kind of background. Mine was actually a painting. Here's what came out:
A man weeping, head in hands. He sits in a pastoral scene, with beautiful trees, mountains, and paths that he will not even notice. He is beside himself, within himself--completely unaware of the world that exists around him. He is the epitome of a man lost. He is also a sad and pathetic reminder that we are all selfish beings. We cry over lost love, lost homes, maybe even something so trivial as lost shoes. Yet there is a world of hurt out there--beyond us--and if we can't stretch our gazes past our own shoes, what trouble we are in.
It's interesting where these "free-writing" exercises go. The mind, almost instantly, begins to transform, to interpret, to make stories that are based on our own realities. This leads me back to my position that there is no reality, only perception. And back to my own quote that I continue to repeat: "All in the world is relative, open to interpretation, very subjective--and individual perceptions are based on the clouded and deluded lenses through which we see."
Last night in class we wrote, on the spot, for five minutes in reaction to an image of a person set in some kind of background. Mine was actually a painting. Here's what came out:
A man weeping, head in hands. He sits in a pastoral scene, with beautiful trees, mountains, and paths that he will not even notice. He is beside himself, within himself--completely unaware of the world that exists around him. He is the epitome of a man lost. He is also a sad and pathetic reminder that we are all selfish beings. We cry over lost love, lost homes, maybe even something so trivial as lost shoes. Yet there is a world of hurt out there--beyond us--and if we can't stretch our gazes past our own shoes, what trouble we are in.
It's interesting where these "free-writing" exercises go. The mind, almost instantly, begins to transform, to interpret, to make stories that are based on our own realities. This leads me back to my position that there is no reality, only perception. And back to my own quote that I continue to repeat: "All in the world is relative, open to interpretation, very subjective--and individual perceptions are based on the clouded and deluded lenses through which we see."
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