To Survive with Expression is to Die with Intent

Without expression, my aspirations for survival would simply not exist. In the instances of other mortals prescribing me an expiration date, when my body fails and time begins to run short, expression is the only field where I am constantly open-ended. To live without constraint, to create without pause or compunction, is the bare minimum for any artist's process. Though art must be boundless, I have concluded that survival with no limits is a myth. Everything, including me, will eventually succumb, and that no longer scares me. Instead, it is something that brings me comfort. My boundaries, this disease, this flesh and blood, have been my best teachers. To survive without boundaries, is simply not survival, as everything will inevitably dissipate. I find peace in being governed by my limitations; I know what I am, and in knowing myself, I create infinite possibility. These concepts seem to be antithetical, though when balanced, a symphony of human ingenuity blossoms in the form of art.

As we go about our days optimizing our conditions and avoiding death, we simultaneously invest in the opportunity to create. These concepts, freedom and boundary, death and creativity, are indeed reconcilable. When balanced properly, what one discovers is not chaos, but harmony: a quiet, insistent symphony of human ingenuity. My art does not struggle against my condition, rather it accommodates it. There is strife, yes, but that strife begets no meaning, as struggle is simply ok. Survival is not merely the continuation of breath or the ability to reproduce, as humans are not interchangeable units. I could technically persist without ever sewing a new shirt, or singing along to “Pictures of You” by The Cure. Though, that is not survival; it is merely existence, and I would rather lay in my coffin. 

If anything, my condition has made me more human, more exposed to what matters. I've processed the very human desire for pattern-recognition and familiarity. Pattern is not a mental sleight of hand, it's fundamental to how we interpret the world, we're hard-wired for it. Stereotyping, in its most primitive meaning, is a survival mechanism: to know that jagged things hurt, that snarling mouths mean danger, that warmth can lead to a burn. These quick appraisals were necessary when we lived in the wild, and still dominate how we perceive and forecast the world. They also govern how we experience art, whether art appears to be governed or not. 

This is where design language comes in. Design language is a seductive fusion of cues, aesthetic choices, and intent that allow us to recognize an artist's hand, even if they switch mediums or ignore conventions. I love this, just as I've come to love myself through my own limitations, as I can come to know others through their expressive habits. More eloquently said, I would offer that design language is simply the expression of identity over time. Even if an artist rejects this, their rejection becomes a part of their style. This isn't restrictive, it's conforming, and concept takes form when defined.

Through the lenses of expression, I look forward and I endure. Through pattern and design, I resist meaninglessness. My body may be disintegrating, but in my ability to create and to understand creation I am unbroken. Art, in all of its endless contradictions, reminds me of everything I love about being human. In that, I find a strange grace; If I must die, let it be with intention, with the impact of a design language that is uniquely mine. Within my bounds, I have created something boundless. That, to me, is surviving with expression, and to survive with expression is to die with intent.