philosophie.

finally, a rounded-corner success

Taxi at Lincoln Centre, NYC.

Try the fabulous online photo editor at Picnik.com.

happy.. late American thanksgiving

Some things are to be celebrated: I finally got my own laptop back!!! (my laptop’s screen had gone pink on steriod in Sept, and I had sent it back to Bestbuy to be repaired since I had a warranty. they told me it would take two weeks, and it turned out to be more than a month… but at least, it’s back and all is well). I am so not used to the big screen now, after having been using the HP netbook my roommate kindly lent me for the past two months or so. Maybe that is the reason why my dark circles are more pronounced now?

Anyway. A life’s update. I have had the first American thanksgiving dinner ever, and it was good. Though I don’t get why cranberry sauce is called “sauce” since it’s in its jelly form. Otherwise, back in Toronto is nice: much at ease, and very happy to see friends, as always.

Now I can finally update my much-abandoned photolog since I had no access to my own programs/photos. =)

the most difficult question to answer

I think I finally have a confident and complete answer for this question, for this stage of my life. I’d like to record it down.

“Who is/are your favourite composer/composers?”

J.S.Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms.

what are we doing?

I always wonder, what are we trying to say through art?

Sometimes, we are so touched by art for art’s sake, by the exquisite craftsmanship of art itself, and we may in turn agree with the moral or philosophical views of the context – if there is one.

But what is art supposed to do? What is art supposed to say?

As a performer, are we to make choice of what work we want to take on? If so, do we base it on the artistic value, or its contextual value, or something else?

—-

Yesterday I glanced outside the window of our living room, which faces the Hudson River on Riverside Drive. The trees have become much more barren.

Thomas Mann

For beauty, Phaedrus, mark me, beauty alone is both divine and visible at once; and thus it is the road of the sensuous; it is, little Phaedrus, the road of the artist to the spiritual. But do you now believe, my dear, that they can ever attain wisdom and true human dignity for whom the road tot he spiritual leads through the senses? Or do you believe rather (I leave the choice to you) that this s a pleasant but perilous road, a really wrong and sinful road, which necessarily leads astray? For you must know that we poets cannot take the road of beauty without having Eros join us and set himself up as our leader. Indeed, we may even be heroes after our fashion, and hardened warriors, through we be like women, for passion is our exaltation, and our desire must remain love – that is our pleasure and our disgrace. You now see, do you not, that we poets cannot be wise and dignified? That we necessarily go astray, necessarily remain lascivious, and adventurers in emotion? The mastery of our style is all lies and foolishness, our renown and honor the training of the public and of youth through art is a precarious undertaking which should be forbidden. For how, indeed, could he be a fit instructor who is born with a natural leaning towards the precipice? We might well disavow it and reach after dignity, but wherever we turn it attracts us. Let us, say, renounce the dissolvent of knowledge, since knowledge, Phaedrus, has no dignity or strength. It is aware, it understands and pardons, but without reserve and form. It feels sympathy with the precipice, it IS the precipice. This then, we abandon with firmness, and from now on our efforts matter only by their yield of beauty, or, in other words, simplicity, greatness, and new rigor, form, and a second type of openness. But form and openness, Phaedrus, lead to intoxication and to desire, lead the noble perhaps into sinister revels of emotion which his own beautiful rigor rejects as infamous, lead to the precipice – yes, they too lead to the precipice. They lead us pots there, I say, since we cannot force ourselves,since we can merely let ourselves out. And now I am going, Phaedrus. You stay here; and when you no longer see me, then you go too.

- from Death in Venice by Thomas Mann

Once in my teenage years I have experienced and agreed with this profoundly. It is a dangerous, exciting, sinful road, an it will consume one without a trace.

Perhaps this is what some embrace wholeheartedly- and live for.

In my twenties now, reading this, I am seeing myself. To fully comment and understand this passage I will need to read way more (ie Plato), but it is here to be recorded.

——–

There’s an urge inside everybody that wants to destroy beauty. To possess, to make impure and imperfect, and take delight and pride in the ownership of such actions.

It makes me shiver.