Writing--Be Brutal. Make Me Hate This.

[candycanechild]

I've seen some posts on here get way out of hand. I know you're an opinionated bunch. I wrote this and I want to enter it to our school's lit. magazine. But I want you to tell me about the WRITING... not so much about the opinions expressed in it. They aren't exactly what I think... it's what the person speaking in the story thinks... and I'm not that person. Don't lose sight of that. Anyway, here it is:

An Artist's Rendition

An artist’s rendition of what something is “supposed” to look like has always bored me. Countless times I’ve gone into art museums and left feeling unimpressed. Surely I shouldn’t critique the paintings… after all; they’re hanging in a museum, so surely there mustn’t be anything wrong with them. But as I wandered the art museum that one Sunday morning, I saw—for the very first time—that all artists are liars.

Art is simply a perception of what the world doesn’t look like. They say art imitates life, but I’ve yet to see any art like that. Everything I saw that one morning in the museum was so far from what the world really is. The sky isn’t that perfectly blended shade of blue—haven’t these people heard of pollution? Haven’t they ever seen a rainy, overcast day? And the grass! Oh, don’t get me started on the grass! Grass isn’t green, people! Seriously, grass is mostly a muddy shade of brown-yellow-green, all blended together in the most disgusting fashion! I’ve never seen grass that perfect color they always make it… bright and fresh and artificial. I bet they even used paint named, “Grass Green” and “Sky Blue”, which is so stupid, since the sky isn’t always that color, and neither is the grass!

Maybe I just can’t relate because I’ve yet to see a piece of art that looks like my life. My house isn’t a nineteenth-century Victorian, and I don’t have a white picket fence. My flowers never look so bright and fragrant, and my home-grown tomatoes always get eaten by rabbits. I never make my bed, and I never leave my slippers at the foot of it. Why, then, does every picture I see depict these little moments? Why are all the beds covered in heirloom quilts and feathered pillows? Why is every house surrounded by a white picket fence? Why are all the flowers always alive, even when it appears to be a picture painted of December?

Why don’t any artists show what life really entails? Why am I always staring at a portrait of a beautiful person, and never a plain one? Why isn’t there a painting of rundown apartment buildings in sight?

I imagine artists don’t intend to lie. Maybe they are really just idealistic… always seeing what they want to see and never looking at reality. Or maybe they want to balance out the imperfection they see everywhere. Maybe they’re like editors, who fix all the mistakes and don’t think twice about it—it’s their job, after all. But nonetheless, art never shows what reality is like.

And for once, I’d like to see a perfectly painted picture of imperfection.

[sammyb]

As for feeling, it's got that.  I just corrected some puncuation and grammar... I'm an editor, so I can't help it!   

I've seen some posts on here get way out of hand. I know you're an opinionated bunch. I wrote this and I want to enter it to our school's lit. magazine. But I want you to tell me about the WRITING... not so much about the opinions expressed in it. They aren't exactly what I think... it's what the person speaking in the story thinks... and I'm not that person. Don't lose sight of that. Anyway, here it is:

An Artist's Rendition

An artist’s rendition of what something is “supposed” to look like has always bored me. Countless times I’ve gone into art museums and left feeling unimpressed. Surely I shouldn’t critique the paintings… after all; (should be just a comma) they’re hanging in a museum, so surely there mustn’t be anything wrong with them. But as I wandered the art museum that one Sunday morning, I saw—for the very first time—that all artists are liars.

Art is simply a perception of what the world doesn’t look like. They say art imitates life, but I’ve yet to see any art like that. Everything I saw that one (I would delete this word) morning in the museum was so far from what the world really is. The sky isn’t that perfectly blended shade of blue—haven’t these people heard of pollution? Haven’t they ever seen a rainy, overcast day? And the grass! Oh, don’t get me started on the grass! Grass isn’t green, people! Seriously, grass is mostly a muddy shade of brown-yellow-green, all blended together in the most disgusting fashion! I’ve never seen grass that perfect color they always make it… bright and fresh and artificial. I bet they even used paint named, “Grass Green” and “Sky Blue”, which is so stupid, since the sky isn’t always that color, and neither is the grass!

Maybe I just can’t relate because I’ve yet to see a piece of art that looks like my life. My house isn’t a nineteenth-century Victorian, and I don’t have a white picket fence. My flowers never look so bright and fragrant, and my home-grown tomatoes always get eaten by rabbits. I never make my bed, and I never leave my slippers at the foot of it. Why, then, does every picture I see depict these little moments? Why are all the beds covered in heirloom quilts and feathered (shouldn't it be just "feather" pillows?) pillows? Why is every house surrounded by a white picket fence? Why are all the flowers always alive, even when it appears to be a picture painted of December?

Why don’t any artists show what life really entails? Why am I always staring at a portrait of a beautiful person, and never a plain one? Why isn’t there a painting of rundown apartment buildings in sight?

I imagine artists don’t intend to lie. Maybe they are really just idealistic… always seeing what they want to see and never looking at reality. Or maybe they want to balance out the imperfection they see everywhere. Maybe they’re like editors, who fix all the mistakes and don’t think twice about it—it’s their job, after all. (You don't even know... I correct everyone's grammar in my head!  It's taken over my life!  Yet, I don't correct my own.) But nonetheless(you only need one of those words, as they do the same thing), art never shows what reality is like.

And for once, I’d like to see a perfectly painted picture of imperfection.

[white trash hero]

good writing

hockney draws people that arent perfect and real life..gay men saggy arses..etc