Spanish Tortillas and Art

I went to Paige's house to have Spanish Tortillas last night. I've never had Spanish toritillas, so I was quite excited. Its almost like a very thick egg crepe or an omlette that has been filled with potatoes onions and other goodies. It was SO filling. I honestly dont understand how people actually eat potatoes. I mean. I like them. they are tasty, but they are so heavy. It was like I was doing battle with complex starches that were refusing digestion. Maybe its because I've been raised on rice which...well...seems to not be in your stomach soon after you finish eating it.

I gave a little contribution of some oven roasted steak with an onion wine sauce. Paige's friend Esti (i'm not sure if I spelled that right, she's basque -cool huh?), the one who made the Spanish tortillas, really enjoyed the sauce. It was very flattering-to see someone devouring something I made because they really liked it. Gosh, it made me want to be a chef again. For about 10 minutes I felt like I was infused with artistic inspiration and the drive to make people plump by preparing delicious food. But alas, that was a short lived inspiration.

The overall conversation of the evening; however, did turn to the topic of art, inspiration, artistry, and the blob like feeling of individual-ness that art is seemingly so rooted in. I was talking with Ted and Matt about this. We have differing views on art. I, being the cold hearted, souless person that I am, believe that all art is derived from a cultural, historical, intellectual discourse whether people are conscious of it or not and that there is very little subjectivity involved in art (not that there is NO subjectivity...just very little). They on the other hand, believe that there is an almost mysitc (but not mystic because that word is not right), and almost divine (but not divine because that word is not right) nature to art that allows it to transcend historical, cultural, and intellectual discourse that is so grounded in time. This conversation went in circles, quite boring for Paige and Esti who, during the course of the conversation-played several games of cards, including WAR. and well, it should be understood how mentally frustrating something is when one is soberly reduced to playing WAR. Anyway, we had to settle with the fact that I was too bitterly postmodern to have their understanding of the subjectivity art, and that they too clingy to the idea people being special to accept my idea of art (and people) being more objective and--not special.

Apparently, my child's first word will be Foucault. Which could happen. Upon more reflection of this conversation and my being a parent, I did futher the though of whether or not I would raise my children with the idea that they were special. I mean, if I sincerely dont believe in the individual special-ness of each person, I dont see how I could tell that too my child. Then again, I suppose all parents tell their children little white lies. Yet, my white lie might lead to some sort of emotional traumatization when he, she or z, grows up.