The Art of Curiosity

Here is another paper I wrote for art class on an art exhibit I attended in SLC, UT. I feel like I ramble a little in this one, so sorry if you don't like it (or feel free to skip it!):

The Art of Curiosity

    The Earth. The Earth is a powerful, massive machine. Often, we humans attempt to intervene. We attempt to change the workings of this machine. More often than not, we are reminded that the Earth cannot be controlled. Man’s monuments to progress can be brought down in the glance of an iceberg or a tiny spark within the belly of the Hindenburg. These smallest gears of nature retire the Goliath’s of Man to rust on the bottom of the ocean, or fall from the sky in a spectacular ball of fire.

    William Lamson often tries to beat the Earth. While sitting and listening to him talk about his work, I could see that he viewed himself as the defier of the laws of nature rather than a mosquito cloaked in the shadow of the approaching hand of the Earth. Unexpectedly, he did seem to share his “failures” openly. In the exhibit we attended, he had attempted to make the oldest and driest desert bloom with life by applying water to the arid ground. His attempts to prove that he could duplicate the rare occurrence were in vain. Despite his diligence, the ground remained dormant except for a few tiny stalks of green. Now, many artists would have chalked the attempt up to failure. They would have tucked away the videos and burned the film. William Lamson did not do this. William acknowledged his defeat and shared the perceived failure. For William, the art is not having what you expect to happen happen, but sharing the overarching truth discovered through experimentation: that we are but ants. I think this brings home for me the true purpose of this life. This life is not for creating a permanent mark in the sands of time, but for learning to love and be happy on the miracle of this planet. We need to learn to enjoy the present, rather than living in the dust that is the recent past and inevitable future. Eventually, we will all rust on the bottom of the ocean or drift away in the smoke of an ever-changing universe. The molecules that allow you to feel and love will one day return to the void of space. So let us enjoy those feelings while we can.

This is not to say that we shouldn’t explore and push the boundaries of existence. Rather, it says quite the opposite. We must not be afraid to go water a desert or attempt to walk on water. William Lamson’s work taught me that curiosity is art, more so than the discoveries that come from it. As he said himself, much of his work seems like a 5th grade science project. That remark of his reminded me of what it was like being young. I remember filling  notebooks with ridiculous inventions and theories about the world. The unknown was exciting and anything was possible. Over time, we each grow older and the stars get further and further away. With age comes disappointment and the realization that we can’t all be astronauts and ballerinas. William Lamson’s failures seem to perfectly capture this realization. This would be disappointing and depressing for me, but then I see him waltz off to the Great Salt Lake. For William, when the stars retreat further into the skies above, he goes searching for the one that fell to the Earth instead. His art is the journey of curiosity, not the defeat of the Earth. His art is about seizing the moment, not pushing this moment into “the dust of this planet.”

Note: "In the Dust of This Planet" is a book by Eugene Thacker