The Fusion of Art and Life, or a Selfie in Prose by Randall Auxier I cannot stand to have my picture taken. I am told that my vanity won’t abide an honest depiction. The people who told me this weren’t nearly so eloquent in expressing the point as I was in that lovely sentence…

                      Therapy for the Self-conscious Genius by Randall Auxier Artists must be punished. So says our twisted culture. Better still, they must punish themselves. A happy artist is no artist at all, we insist. Among all the artists, especially in the world of the macho 20th century, the men must be violent, the women desperate,…

                       I Am Time, Destroyer of Worlds by Randall Auxier The air is electric. In moments the horrendous battle will begin. Our hero, the General Arjuna is hesitating. Something in him wants the battle, something else doesn’t. Krishna, the incarnate form of the Supreme God, appears and urges him to give the order. The discussion…

                                          Emptiness in Harmony by Randall Auxier A Zen moment. Sometimes, unexpectedly, we see straight through the mundane and into the pure existence of the possibilities that surround it. Somehow, the moment vanishes and its pure being is just there, empty of all you thought it was, but full of nothing else. It isn’t exactly…

                                        But Is It Art? by Randall Auxier It must be weird, for those who live to see it. Imagine you’re an artist and some work you created ends up in a museum, like, across from a Picasso. When Morley Safer interviewed Picasso,…

                              Weaving a World By Randall Auxier Bob Dylan just won the Nobel Prize for literature. Folk music is hereby raised to fine art? Bosh. I think the division between fine art and “low” arts is artificial. Some of the best art I have ever seen (or heard or eaten) was made by people smugly…

                                       The Mayflower and the Moon by Randall Auxier In a wearied voice the singer confesses his need for some rest. His melody comes from a Bach chorale. But our singer, a notable presence in the great folk scare, probably heard the melody in a 1965 recording by some fellow New Yorkers. No one ever…

Of Teaspoons and Waves By Randall Auxier Paul Simon wrote (over a happy chord and floating rhythm) “she makes the sign of a teaspoon, he makes the sign of a wave.” That’s cryptic. But we see it here, in the video. What does that sign mean? These two people seem to understand, after he puts…

Everything Is Holy Now by Randall Auxier It’s a line from Peter Mayer‘s song “Holy Now.” There is a longing for the holy, whatever it is. But the connection between holiness and beauty has been a problem for Western (and some Eastern) religions. If we worship what cannot be seen, what happens when we actually…

Out of the Pure Blue by Randall Auxier Every time I go to central Texas I am amazed by how ugly and hateful the grackals are. But this bird shimmers and shines iridescently and is often the color of deep indigo, which many regard as the most beautiful blue there is. Something has gone awry…