03.08

Last week I wandered the 50+ rooms of the Pitti Palace in Florence – home of the richest and most influential patrons of the arts that have and will ever exist. These rooms… they were so full of the greatest art… sorry, words fail me. After exiting, I was stunned. Not just because of the thousands of masterpiece paintings and frescoes. Not just because of the elaborate marble and wood architecture. No, what I was stunned by was the fact that someone actually cared enough about art that they dedicated their lives to precise framing and composition of every single work.
Some would disagree with me. “Care? No, they only procured and paid for this art because it was fashionable or a symbol of status.” But anyone that would say that has never been to Florence. There is love and respect for these artists there. Real love, tangible and undeniable. The containing buildings are as lovingly crafted as the art. Not like the National Gallery, were the building is at odds with its goods, were history is more important than the art itself(disgrace!).
I can only say that I am hesitant to call myself an artist now.
And I am hesitant to believe that there is a place for art anymore.
Florence is already full.
Listen to what is on the radio! I didn’t even realize this until later! bahashsha! The License plate said “troy.”
Oh, And check the first related video.
This video is exactly how i feel every second of the day in this Hell Hole™. I seriously will puke pee/ seriously. Oh yeah…. Ready the comments too!!! hahjshhashjashjhj/!!!!mkjkbd chevyblazer1987 sdnkjlmdsflgvjpfdmsdfkgsndfgkjsnggslkgjslgjsfghlkdsfgjk Pdpfsdakoppepepepepeepepepepppepepepeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
Snowflakes fall like white ashes
Burning tree, my memory
Night-time walk I stretch my limbs
Praying please, alight upon me
Ice feathers charred fill the sky
Were you, now once, am I
Bathed in empty around, within
Infinity fills up again
All words signify one all
In the dictionary of being
We cry out the radiant call.
Prepare yourselves children, sing aloud
Brothers and Sisters of being, all
Hark the literally infinite litany, proud.
Here’s a pretty crappy poem I wrote, but I don’t write poems often, so I thought I’d share it.
Connor
Untitled from Connor Novotny on Vimeo.
I’d rather have no comments on this one. Hope you can dig something about it.