Dabblings & Diatribes

I'm thinking about writing. Why write? What is there to write about? Why, I'm terrible at creative writing; I have not a creative bone in my body. Yet there's something fantastic about writing that even words cannot articulate. But today I received two compliments. One for the Paul Stuart shirt I was wearing, and the second on merit of my writing of a pretentious little art review. And speaking of (its posted below), the piece warrants some prefatory qualifying remarks. I wrote it after being asked my opinion of a picture a friend had taken. It was written for kicks, and not to be taken quite so seriously. In fact, my intention was merely to write something snobbishly ostentatious, fraught with vague, condescending generalities. That much I very well may have accomplished, but at the expense of any real artistic analysis of the artwork. So it may be said, as it once was said of Warren Harding's speeches, that my art review was " an army of pompous phrases moving across the landscape in search of an idea."