Terrible Tendrils and Art
Is the word merely negatively charged in non-traditional biological terms?
I’m pretty sure it is but perhaps deservedly so.
It implies unhealthy control mechanisms behind the scenes, dark and malevolent. Grasping and extending, leaving those they touch less than they’d been: less healthy, less wealthy, less happy, less moral, less noble, less everything positive and truly beautiful.
Tendrils: writhing and snaking their way through everything good and healthy and leaving it blanched at best, like a vampire’s victim, but a wise vampire, one that knows that if you take everything, the victim can’t keep giving. Slime trails the tendrils’ path marking their history.
The world seems enmeshed in tendrils today, religiously, politically, militarily and economically, the big four. Hunger, insecurity, fear and misery thriving in their growing shadow, the deepest and darkest of penumbrae.
Is there a silver lining, a trace, maybe even just an echo of the shadow of color? One brave, slim, lonely beam of light fighting the dark?
Perhaps philosophy remains free, true philosophy, individualistic and non-conformist, at least until the philosopher loses control to his or her adherents and critics, and interpreters, and miss-interpreters.
And art, what about art, true art, individualistic creative art, art that looks at the world from every perspective and discovers never ending nuances everywhere. Not the abuse of art by those who seek to use it for unrelated purposes, copying and perverting originality, seeking mere novelty without purpose or reflective capabilities. But true, unadulterated chaotic art.
Can art be the anti-tendril, or perhaps at least a tendril in positive form (which I assume amounts to the same thing). Yes, … perhaps a sliver of hope remains, … has to remain. I can almost see it, if only it recognizes itself and sheds its narcissistic longings; escapes from the mirrors and museums and exhibition halls and returns to its true homes, the minds and hearts and souls of men and women who refuse to yield the child within.
Art, the shield that can still save us, the fortress and bastion which needs neither space not time nor dimension because it lives in imagination, eats at the fount of ideas and even its feces is creation.
If only it could be distilled but distilled, it would no longer be art. Cultivated it is no longer art. Art is the wild grape inadvertently ingested after self fermentation. Art, at its core, strives on spontaneity, is essential unchained spontaneity, joyous, free and irreverent.
Art, the true art that changes everything it touches either subtly or flagrantly, but almost always for the better, at least in the long term.
Art, the quintessential anti-tendril! Will it prove enough?
 © Guillermo Calvo Mahe, Manizales, 2009; all rights reserved