"In a world of increasing ambivalence, why do we persist in making art?"
That was the question, practically barked from the back of the packed auditorium, that put my friend Currado Malaspina into a meditative trance.
He was delivering a lecture as part of his responsibilities as a visiting artist at The School of Visual Arts in New York and though the question was pretty boilerplate art student fare it provoked in Currado a momentary regression into genuine introspection.
I know for a fact that he has been asking himself a similar question after suffering a prolonged drought in motivation. "The days just seem to repeat themselves," he recently complained to me in a rare text message, "studio, sex, food, drink, studio, studio. I feel like a grazing buffalo growing lecherous and lethargic with empty habit."
Poor guy.
After a few long, uncomfortable minutes he looked up at the crowded room and with what seemed to those in attendance as an uncharacteristic moment of sincerity he came up with the following answer.
"We persist in making art for the same reason why we continue to fill our nights with dreams. For if we didn't we would most certainly descend into a state of despondency, madness and grief."
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