The death of an artist is already written in the stars and it’s sped up by the noisy city, the growing materialism, the F1 racing cars.
The plastic bags that threaten to destroy planet earth are a rock on the heart of the ones who hold it dear. The artist is suffocating under the umbrage of hashtags. She can’t remember when she painted something without posting it last. She’s commercialising the colours and even the brushes she swore, would be sacred to her.
But she felt herself struggling to buy canvases and drawing pads while those who barely started sketching were unwrapping hauls, gifts and promotional packages. The one who loved playing music on a street-side with the homeless and kids being his sole audience sold his guitar on an e-commerce website to have a Starbucks. Now his fingers moved faster on the laptop than guitar.
Artists die daily, a death that is inevitable. The art we love and see has been to such an extent commercialised that everyone likes the same thing and everyone makes the same thing with little variation. Jazz is taking its last breath, crushed by Mozart compositions. The pollution of an artist’s mind is dangerous to the creative ecosystem and he waits for someone to light his Amazon on fire. Many have evacuated the sanctuary already and some are learning to keep their passion as a hobby. Those refusing to do so are compromising at every point and we say, development of humanity is just around the corner.