April 24, 2013 by musehick
My aesthetic sensibilities do not tend towards perfectionism – I like the organic; the rusting and the decaying; something that is alive and therefore I suppose, in some way tending towards entropy. The lived in futures of those fiction writers who populate their world’s with real people and not ciphers sing to me more than any polished version of an idea.
People are rough around the edges – their information has not been rounded up to the nearest decimal point. I think with the emergence of fuzzy maths and chaos theory, fractals and those other slightly dirty and battered forms of thinking that didn’t try to lie about the world and impose intricate clockwork order where it was most obviously not in place, seemed realer to me, than those esoteric abstractions that contain little of the essence of humanity and barely any of the dirt of reality.
I like music that stutters, swallows and regurgitates feedback; that has glitch system heartbeats, synthesiser breaths, and stainless steel balls that throb with atonal bass-bin resonance.
I like literature that works like a textual map of its own inner confusion – an interplay of the textual, meta-textual and onion-layered narrative that is the true form of any book you are reading.
I like films that drift through the hazy astigmatism of the characters. Diegetic and non-diegetic sounds that jostle for attention, like explicit dialogue and pathetic fallacy; narrative and mise-en-scene fighting each other for dominance.
None of these things are clean, or proscribed / prescribed; I have qualified it before as dirt in the mix, and it is a necessary ingredient.