The concept of the suffering artist. The poetic, intelligent yet tragic persona. A Pre-Raphaelite. That is what we want to be. The starving, suffering artist. We would die for our art, our genius.
It excuses our madness and our irrationalities as long as we have that essence, that grandiose quality that makes it all worthwhile. Almost miniscule in comparison to the greater art.
These romantic ideals of a genius living a life of imagination and dreams. To surpass all trivial, material needs. This is mine. My un-realistic image of perfection. Very far from perfection in fact but this is what I envisage it to be.
same here :/
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