Sorry that this one is a bit late, but I think I can be excused on account of the holiday season!
I was given a very interesting book by my dad as a Christmas gift – At the Existentialist Cafe: Freedom, Being, and Apricot Cocktails. It’s a book that details author Sarah Bakewell’s fascination with French existentialist thinker Jean-Paul Sartre, and I’ve found it enthralling so far.
As an artist, something about Sartre’s existentialism intrigues me. It is concerned not with some abstract philosophy, but with the lived experience of the individual. In the past I have often found myself wondering what exactly my photography means, and have come up with some very good answers. Recently, however, I’ve begun to think that maybe the question itself is flawed. Why does art have to concern itself with meaning? I don’t believe our lives have any inherent meaning, so why must our creations?
You may think these questions are empty, and I can understand why, but I find this (albeit shallow) thought enticing, and it’s something I’d very much like to explore in the New Year.