Groucho Marx
Why not? There’s poetic license, a literary go-ahead to say anything in whatever way possible, even if structurally and idiomatically right or wrong.
Artistic license, then, relates to the existential right to make a sundry piece of art, good, bad or indifferent; but nevertheless, one should respect that burst of creativity for its intrinsic worth: at worst, a whole lot of spent energy, time, and originality, regardless of the content; yet an expression and sharing of one’s soul.
Art’s visual beauty, sensual interpretations and creative inspirations are in the eye of the beholder; albeit, sometimes a bottle of eye bleach is needed, or a pair of earplugs inserted, to buffer the unsavory effects of an irritating, downright-ugly presentation, being force-fed to one’s social-media timeline regularly. That can be annoying, granted.
Regardless, one doesn’t have to look or listen to it. For those who do, why not make a comment? It doesn’t matter whether the feedback is sincerely complimentary or outrageously derogatory. At least it’s something, an iota, a kind gesture to make someone feel like what they do is worth it.
Criticism is an essential building block in creating a prospective masterpiece that may never come to light, due to an artist’s insecure cravings for acceptance and not receiving any recognition, saying finally to wit, “To hell with it, I’m through.”
Look at Vincent van Gogh. See what happened to him? Spare artists an early demise. Comment on their work. Tell them if it sucks, is the worst and most ridiculous thing you’ve ever seen or heard. Or maybe, if you like it, be kind enough to make a mention. Even if you hate it, tell them so; for a creative individual’s artistic drive may breakdown suddenly and come to a complete halt indefinitely without any type of feedback from anybody.
End of rant, thanks for your continued support.
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