I get stuck on things.
Songs and images, mostly, and most often the ones I get stuck on have a repetitive, insistent quality of their own; I find in them a sort of obsessive knot whose end I'd like to tease out. Somewhere between their repetition, and mine, I feel there must be something caught that wants to be revealed.
Right now it's one song, and in particular the guitar's circular, slashing motif; it makes me think of old manuscripts I've seen where the handwriting loops back on itself as revisions are endlessly worked over, where a thought can't be released until it's reached perfection or a stalemate, where there's an occasional pause as though breath were being drawn before the hand leaps back in and resumes the attack again.
I Might Be Wrong--Radiohead, live at Maida Vale
It reminds me of Franz Kline's black and white paintings; the same feeling of ferocity and economy.
Are there connections to be made when we look across genres this way, when the mind tugs on the end of that string and finds a never-ending series of knots in it? What happens within this kind of repetion, both the personal and artistic urges? It's something I'll be returning to.
Songs and images, mostly, and most often the ones I get stuck on have a repetitive, insistent quality of their own; I find in them a sort of obsessive knot whose end I'd like to tease out. Somewhere between their repetition, and mine, I feel there must be something caught that wants to be revealed.
Right now it's one song, and in particular the guitar's circular, slashing motif; it makes me think of old manuscripts I've seen where the handwriting loops back on itself as revisions are endlessly worked over, where a thought can't be released until it's reached perfection or a stalemate, where there's an occasional pause as though breath were being drawn before the hand leaps back in and resumes the attack again.
I Might Be Wrong--Radiohead, live at Maida Vale
It reminds me of Franz Kline's black and white paintings; the same feeling of ferocity and economy.
Are there connections to be made when we look across genres this way, when the mind tugs on the end of that string and finds a never-ending series of knots in it? What happens within this kind of repetion, both the personal and artistic urges? It's something I'll be returning to.
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