Okay, so I haven’t totally grappled with Urvater’s last post, you know, just woke up with this notion, and thought I’d pass it on.
Let’s say: Twig Creature is an artist. Invents painting on the wall, telling stories, shadows on the cave wall, or something. In so doing, e creates the possibility of something other than reality. Ideals; utopias; beauty; the future; and in so doing, invents falling short of ideals, distopias, ugliness, the unhappy present. The invention of comparison — between our actual lives and one that exists in the form of smeared bug guts mixed with flower petals ground up to make a colour on a rock that looks like a really successful hunt. The marvellous beasts we could have found and killed if we’d been more lucky or clever; the hunt we might have in the future; how life would be if we weren’t so hungry. The imagination. The chain of desire and suffering. The old ones, the ones that lived before the invention of art, are like monks. The new ones are entangled in a net of hope and disillusionment, because they, you see, made the mistake of allowing art to corrupt them, just like the audience has, by coming to the theatre. So maybe: the invention of art. The invention of illusion. That kind of thing.
Maybe there’s something in that.