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Thriving in the Concrete Jungle

© Chris Rothe

Beauty is almost never synonymous with the greyscale harshness of the urban tangle a multitude of us are caught fast in. In my last article, I begged for an acceptance of nature as supreme art, undeniable beauty, without the needless complications of things like humans...

Here, we have a place of dwelling, a place of business and a unique way of life that sits within each and every one of us who choose to make the all encompassing city their home.

I feel that there is a very unique form of art, all based on the rigors of the needlessly complicated human existence. I feel that humanity itself is art in its complexity, and we are artistic creatures at heart, despite our less redeeming qualities, and I feel that the city brings it all to a head. It is a testiment to our artistic tendencies, a reflection of the natural things that we chose to set aside, and therefore, quite literally, a concrete jungle.

The effort of arcitecture, endless expanses of compelling construction, crafted to perfection and filled with reflctive surfaces, adorned with flora and fauna and to top it all of, an elaborate fountain, spilling water over various sculptures, stones and jutting shale. The performers, earning their keep among the restless denizens stalking to and fro, trying to make them stop and have a look at something fun, interesting and unique, and perhaps, recieve a coin or two in turn. The rush of excitement, the true to life feel of what we've all come to accept; a comfort and a place to call our home. A place to aspire to greater things, a place to stop and say, I'd like to do this, and a place with which to do it. It is the purgatory of modern life, the self fulfilling prophecy of what humanity has become, what we have made it be. The sounds of nightclubs, the stratiegic escape from the 'hustle and bustle', a place to fill up on (legal) drugs and chat with strangers about the things that the have in common. Cities are the materials for modern art. Cities are the containers of the quirks we all keep shoved in the back of our mental icebox, containers so few of us choose to reopen and express. They are the epitome of life, and proof of Murphy's Law. We are all machines, we all will fail, but we will all have our place in the sun. Here's where we choose to live it out, our piece of that stage we all perform upon, and our homes have become the backstage, here's where we let it all go.

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