Modern Art by Fenner Dreyfuss-Wells

In my last blog post, I wrote a stream of consciousness that made me laugh a little bit and threw in a few line breaks. In my mind it had no meaning; there was no idea that I attempted to convey. Our editor told me, quite reasonably, that he couldn’t make any changes because he didn’t know what it meant. I’m sorry, Josh. It felt lazy, and a bit fraudulent. I feel guilty for writing without a purpose in mind, and for not taking my time.

On the other hand, how can one call artistic expression illegitimate? What about the millions of dollars art collectors pay for squares of unpainted canvas? Maybe the meaning is for someone else to find. Maybe we should attach some value to things that just sound nice, things that take our minds on a little walk, that catch us off guard.  Maybe there’s something to be said for the feeling gathered from skimming the surface of language without a single thought toward the deeper meaning of the words, if that meaning even exists. sharp edge ice crackle brisk pop snow thirst dirty trick bury warm donut?

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