Kusu

“But if art is not a dangerous adventure, then what is it, and what is its justification? No, free artists cannot enjoy comfort any more than free people can. Free artists are those who, with great difficulty, create order themselves. The more chaos they must bring order to, the stricter their rules will be, and the more they will have affirmed their freedom. Gide said something that I have always agreed with, even though it might be misunderstood: “Art lives from constraint and dies from freedom.” That is true, but we must not draw the conclusion that art should be controlled. Art only lives through the constraints it places upon itself: it dies from any others. On the other hand, if art does not control itself, it descends into madness and is enslaved by its own illusions. The most liberated form of art, and the most rebellious, will thus be the most enduring; it will glorify the greatest effort. If a society and its artists do not accept this long, liberating task, if they yield to the comforts of entertainment or conformity, to the diversions of art for art’s sake or the moralizing of realistic art, its artists will remain entrenched in nihilism and sterility. Saying this means that a rebirth in art today depends on our courage and our desire to see clearly.”
― Albert Camus, Create Dangerously

“A prophet, priest, or politician can judge absolutely, and moreover, as we well know, they do not refrain from doing so. But artists cannot. If they judged absolutely, they would classify the nuances of reality as either good or evil, with nothing in between, thus creating melodrama. The goal of art, on the contrary, is not to establish rules or to reign; it is first and foremost to understand.”
― Albert Camus, Create Dangerously

“Every time he touches me, it’s with all of himself, restrained because he knows he’s my first, yet with the kind of passion that makes me wonder if he wants to be the last.”
― Edith Birde, Because I Killed Him

“He never arrives empty-handed. Each time, he brings me something he gathers on his run—a feather from a mountain bird, a shard of pale quartz, a smooth stone threaded with a natural vein—as if, piece by piece, he’s bringing me the whole world.”
― Edith Birde, Because I Killed Him