This is the point where life drops me off and calls it a day,
And the hurt crashes into me so hard that it tears my clothes off of my back,
My scabs off of my wounds.
I’m left standing in the cold,
Feeling nothing but the sharp wind spiking at my bareness.
I look back at the world and see myself; I look inwards and see nothing.
Wassily Kandinsky, Wither the “New” Art ?
‘And their cry echoed the confused question asked by those not yet poisoned by life, by those still preparing for life: Where is the meaning of life? Where lies the aim of life?
‘And the surrounding silence answered: There is no aim in life.
‘The darkness gathered, the air thickened, all escape was blocked.
‘And, unrecognisable, the soul was sick.
‘Those who had lost all hope beat their hands on the locked doors and with those same hands strangled themselves: life was worth nothing.
‘And there poured forth a turbulent flood of violence, outrage, war, murder, suicide.
‘And now, slowly but surely, like a large spot of oil, loss of faith and materialism are seeping through the strata of the populace…At such dark moments nobody needs art…Artists, themselves permeated through and through by materialism, forget their vocation and slavishly ask the public, “What can I do for you?”.’