Artists have symbiotic relationships with one another. We feed, we nourish off of each other. Many times one artist could not, would not exist if it weren't for the other.
One such relationship I've formed is with the late and great Charlie Chaplin, whom I refer to as "The Prince of Pathos," for he undeniably turns my stoic heart into an absolute puddle of humanistic mud whenever his Little Tramp graces the screen. The way he wears not only his heart on his sleeve, but his own contradiction as well--the short, tight waistcoat and big, baggy pants--that innocent heart and beguiling mind; the way he wanders around, lonely as a cloud: Chaplin created the quintessential moving picture of what it means to have inherited the artistic spirit. He is the one who best reminds me of the reason why we artists must exist: to remind our fellow human beings that we are each made of dirt, of clay; that we are fallible; and that this life is indeed meant to feel like one, long beautifully-tragic flaw.
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