What happens to an auteur whose mind becomes a blank box? A palette for others to impart their stamp upon, and none of his/her own? Does he or she whither into oblivion, imbibing all the colors and sounds of the world, and never interpreting and relating them to something authentic, or does the auteur aggressively push the creative effort, crafting artifact and archetypes in the hope of creating an original art?
This complex question has plagued me personally, as at one time a was an extremely prolific writer, and composer, all the while reading and consuming new ideas, learning new languages and means of artistic expression. Now I am become stifled, stymied and relegated to a box.
A true artist cannot be cajoled and crafted by the minds of others. The madness of an auteur must be free and unconstrained. Given the liberty to craft novel and morose ideals, to alienate the aliens, and fortify the base of like minds.
About Me
- The Black Rider
- If you know me then you know my name. I am The Black Rider and the world is my Flame. The rider writes, observes, creates, produces, and learns the world around him. Ride on. Ride on!
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