I keep telling myself I’m about to go to bed, but I’m in a musing mood and want to capture my musing in words (quickly, though).
When you see (or read, or experience) a practically-perfect piece of art, does it make you want to create something equally beautiful yourself? Or does it discourage you from even trying, because you could never reproduce something so practically perfect?
Less-impressive art makes me feel cocky, like I could make something better. But I think I prefer things that I could never come close to achieving myself, even if they do sometimes discourage me.
(This particular bout of musing was brought on by watching the 2005 BBC version of Dickens’ “Bleak House,” which is pretty darn near perfect.)
On a similar but less-grandiose note, I remember reading somewhere recently (probably as a link from someone’s blog) that social media decreases our happiness–that as we read about and see pretty pictures of all the lovely things that people have culled as the best of themselves to represent, we can’t help making negative comparisons to our un-culled, less-than-perfect lives. At the time that I read that, I congratulated myself on having found some blogs to read that have enough raw honesty to balance any confectionary perfection–but since then I’ve noticed that (setting aside the fact that I do also read quite a few very pretty/well-culled blogs) while I love reading well-written things, they do sap my energy to write anything myself–since I feel it’s all been said before, and better than I could. It’s not that (some of) the blogs I like to read portray a perfect life, but they talk about their imperfect lives more wittily or artfully than I could easily match.
In summary: The world is beautiful, and woe is me!