Tuesday, 18 February 2014


"She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn't supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something."

We live in the post-modern era. A time where art is stripped of all standard definition, for interpretation is relative, subject to the consumers. And so we do. We define art. Or do we?

Every human being, mind and body, is a  unique work of art. Art was never meant for standardization --but how often have we attempted to categorize them into our "panoptic divisions" --That's some lawyer stuff right there. Ooh, doctor material. Nah, probably a cleaner at a food center. Exaggerating common pieces of work and so often disparaging the elegant pieces of fine art, thinking we have it all. Such ignorance. I don't quite know what to think, whether it is more tragic for the subjects of discussion or the subject debaters, in their lamentably narrow scope of minds.

Why do try so hard to fit in? Perhaps we were never meant to. It is a lovely thing to be born different. Why do we allow ourselves to think otherwise? For in so doing we casually dispose of true art and prize instead the garish pieces that can be found just about anywhere. The original pieces of unique art are then sculpted by society into mere imitations --a rueful fraction of the beauty they once were -- or lay hidden, never to be discovered.

We fail to appreciate art, or just about anything. The birth of a newborn infant is always seen as a lovely thing. A miracle, a new life, a magical creation of raw art. Does it then ever occur to us that every human being we perceive was once that frail infant? Why have we now lost that element of wonder, even as we see the living wonders that surround us?

We don't define art.  We destroy it.

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