The phrase, “culture and tradition are the enemies of evolution” is the modern artists excuse to erase what had been before, and impose themselves on the works of life. Such misery! All around me are disorienting images of shock I fail to understand, or rather, am too tired to understand, as I have come to realize such things are not worth understanding anymore. All I see are cries of vulgarity and perversions in the name of anarchy so heads will turn to give them the attention they so badly crave. Nothing but the voice of a tortured youth, begging at the world to hear it’s “new philosophy” like a dog. Drowned, a dying breath, falling on the deaf ears of a growing narcissistic population. And in it’s final attempt to be heard, feeds into an unfeeling void and fads, veiling the modern artists true self in these sought out underground puzzles.

Bringing me to my appraisal of traditional Japanese paintings. Paintings from farmers, Buddhists, and samurai who had only sought to record their thoughts. In particular the samurai, who, in times of peace would paint for the sake of themselves. To record their precious memories in a time where they were unwanted. Yes, today they receive lesser audiences, but receive the understanding of the recipient in quiet reserves, avoiding the clicks and murmurs of a camera. Artwork commemorating their tradition and culture, speaking more words in their simplicity than anything, for they care not of the audience's admiration. Taking pride in themselves for even having created and expressed ideals they believed in regardless of opposition.

To live and to love with no concept of recognition is something the modern artist fails to understand. They are afraid. Afraid the world will forget them before they are even gone. Leaving them behind with no recollection of their work. A fear that can be justified, as there are theories stating that one’s existence is only proven if one could confirm they exist without question.

Why put existence in the hands of others, dear artist?

As a modern artist myself, realizing this predicament has led me to the decision that I no longer care about existing. I will paint for love and loved ones, paying no mind to the alien community around me (for they have no significance). I will appraise myself as the historical piece of artwork I am, and be venerated by myself for my commitment to living. So when my body can no longer fit my soul I’ll be congratulated by either mushrooms or flowers to decorate my grave

(for not even the decorum left in my remembrance by nature will matter). I will live on the outskirts of existence itself, and whether that is thought to be conceited of me is of the least importance.

In short, my condolences to the artist that tries much too hard to exist.