About Nothing and Everything

About Nothing and Everything

A circle.

A leaf branching out.

A cliff. 

A hand reaching out.

A volcanic eruption.

An army of ants.

A dog.

A swan.

A dove. 

An eagle.

A lion.

A snake.

A waterfall.

A wildfire.

Seashells.

Rain.

Wind.

Earth.

Fire.

Thunder.

Lightning.

Hot.

Cold.

Life.

Death.

Hope.

Lost.

Euphoric.

Miserable.

What does all of this mean?

A circle.

A single stroke upwards

and downwards of a pencil, a piece of charcoal, of paint, of ink.

Abstract thought.

Abstract movements.

Abstract and unlike matters glued together on one canvas.

Expressionism redefined since the 1940s.

Gustav Klimt.

Friedensreich Hundertwasser.

Clyfford Still.

Vasily Kandinsky.

Jackson Pollock.

I must seem like I’ve gone mad with no sense of direction with this piece. 

Listing names.

Listing short phrases.

Listing words.

“Where’s the meaning in all of this? Speed it up, lady! Get with it!”

On the contrary, I’m a quarter sane, a quarter gloomy, a quarter bonkers, a quarter euphoric, and well, all in all, I’m a bohemian. 

I know, many would beg to differ.

In my purest and most natural form; when in my element, I’m a bohemian… an abstract individual, but specifically for the purposes of this far from direct piece, I’m an abstract thinker… an abstract artist. 

Pablo Picasso once said, “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once (s)he grows up.” 

“Everything you can imagine is real.”

“Inspiration does exist, but it must find you working.”

Then again, he also said, “There is no abstract art. You must always start with something. Afterward you can remove all traces of reality.”

Balance.

Figments. 

Illusions.

Tangible.

Realistic.

Unrealistic.

Idyllic.

Dystopian.

Utopian.

Black and white.

Love.

Hate.

Hunger.

Starvation.

Extremes. 

There’s always an extreme to any and all states of being.

Sick.

Ill.

Upset.

Depressed. 

Thirsty.

Dehydrated.

Hope.

A circle.

“A circle?”

The circle of life.

The circle of death.

Stars and hope.

Meteors and falling.

Drowning.

Falling.

Clinging on.

Grasping.

Helpless.

Hopeless.

Aimless.

Life is all of this and that.

As is art.

Life is art.

Life is expression.

Without expression…

what is life?

Bleak.

Empty.

Uninhabited.

Living is better than merely existing.

Existing is just as good as not being alive.

You exist to adhere, to conform, to be ignorant, to judge, to do what others want and say without though, and so on and so forth.

You live to experience all life is; to be born, to be active, to be depressed and mirthful like Archie, the mirth of a nation… to be overjoyed and down in the dumps… to be a parent… to be a lover… to be well-informed… to be open… to be free… Freedom and reality first exist in the mind… the individual mind. O’Brien would surely disagree. Freedom is not native or determined necessarily by the general consensus, but by the individual person. Well, really, what is freedom? Who knows? It varies. That’s all I’m trying to get at. To some, freedom comes through a matter of mind and being at peace even when everything is seemingly crumbling part. It’s a choice. To others, unfortunately, it’s not always a choice. 

Disagree, agree, hate this piece, love this piece, it doesn’t matter. It’s the way my brain works. I write what I think. I do a boundary or a limit I wish I could cross, but that one’s on the other side of the spectrum entirely and far more controversial so…

I think I’ll keep what’s beyond to myself.

I’ve veered off track completely, haven’t I? This was meant to be about abstract art.

But isn’t art also expression in general? Surely, it’s not just paintings and abstract shapes or thoughts made with oil or paint or who knows what and simply on a canvas… 

To have no direction at times and not straight path to anything or anywhere… that’s life, isn’t it? One must go through the dark to see the light and even then, one can easily re-enter the darkness and be consumed by it.

What is this article really about?

Interpret this piece however you wish because you know what? I, the writer, don’t know.

… 

You want to know something else?

That’s okay.

That’s life.

Or it’s mine at least.

My life: Opening up through writing to those who know me as quite reserved one directionless ramble at a time. Maybe that’s what this is about…

Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps.

Quizas, Quizas, Quizas. 

(Yes, the Doris Day and Andrea Bocelli song.)

By Maya Abou El Nasr