Msnowe's Blog


Posted in Uncategorized by m.snowe on March 22, 2010

m.snowe offers a meaningless story meditation.

One day, a group of flowers found themselves grown into a cluster.

Their elongated and vibrant pedals became intertwined. They felt the sway of their neighbors.  Sometimes, the soft pushes in the breeze were exhilarating. Sometimes, they were vexing, depending on a flower’s mood. But soon enough, they grew so accustomed to the movement that one flower’s pedals became the other’s, and it was hard to decipher just who was brushing whom.

The flowers started to grow and grow in their felicity. But soon enough, the space that was already so little and most agreeable began to swell with too many pedals. “We must expand,” they cried. Their intertwined tendrils fought each other, the colors at war. The pedals whirred, weakened, and bent.

Eventually, one of the brightest and sturdiest reeds was knocked to the ground. There, it shriveled and the pedals lost their shape and color as it sunk into its earthbed. Those looking down from above didn’t see this  necessarily as a targeted attack, or at least not really. Some of the flowers still tall and exuberant cried, and shed a few pedals in lament. But not too many. Others, they whooped in joy that it was not them, or that ultimately it did not concern them. But after a time, all the flowers grew afraid as they saw the browning remains of their once-breezy brethren disappear below their roots and felt its nutrients give them life.

The flowers decided that only in the worst circumstances should they agree to repeat such a warring, turbulent engagement. One by one, they gave way to the seasons, and all was repeated  by an innocent, unknowing generation in their stead.

*Untitled photos by Charles Ray. More here.

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Posted in Uncategorized by m.snowe on March 24, 2009

m.snowe is not at all confused as to why artists of all forms have certain accoutrements about them. Writers have a pen, musicians have drum sticks, guitars, etc., painters have brushes, performers have microphones, and so on and so forth. All of these “extensions” of self that represent the “instruments” of one’s art, the fountainheads of one’s inspiration…well, m.snowe thinks you’re clever enough to see where she’s going with this. And of course, that’s somewhere pointy, and phallic. Of course, this theoretical argument only works for the male artists, and begs a very different question about what women get out of the deal–but let’s ignore that very valid argument for just a few sentences.

The question m.snowe would like to have answered is this one: if we know it’s all for show… if we know that the extensions of self through art are indeed separate and unconnected (i.e. a musician isn’t encapsulated in one song or their performance of it, a painter is not one painting…m.snowe hopes, anyways), then why are so many otherwise level-headed people given to swoons around artists of all shapes and sizes? How do they translate beautiful music, or breathtaking art, into a false-sense of intimacy with the creator, who unlike the art, could be cruel, ugly, or just plain stupid?

m.snowe herself is guilty of such blind admiration (she hates to say, in certain circumstances), but also hopes the reader will carefully weigh the evidence–exhibits being that artists are indeed a troublesome lot. One should not cast their wills with them so casually. And one should always understand that although art in all forms, when experienced, can speak many more words than any of us in our lifetimes, an artist is the vessel–and can be anything–kind, wicked, crooked, deceitful.  m.snowe asks for others (and herself) that in viewing the art, one is not blinded to the life around it.

“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” – that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Keats may have been onto something here–stick to the art, separate from the creator. [Think what wonders that would do if we applied that to religion!]