That which is truly great must be both defining and limitless. This is why artists are artists and not just any man, but also why any man can be an artist. Art itself is not entertainment but a representation of the human soul, of the human condition. But this is entertaining, especially when it masquerades as detached objective display. The common conception is that art and entertainment are—must be—separate. And when they entangle, we distinguish the complicated, the complex, that which makes us think and cringe and turn away, as “high” art. Separate from those who are not artists or of the “art world.” The all-inclusive world we like to say we live in is just another masquerading farce. Why are people so scared to acknowledge their own existence?
But life is all-inclusive and art is all-encompassing. There is no distinguishing hierarchy but only experiences and judgment. There is no unique experience, only unique judgment. Novelty lies in the unconscious. Our movements, our feelings, our visions are shared. Archetypes of the collective unconscious. My life is your life but your life is my life.
Such is the artist. The one who captures our lives. The one who makes us say, I didn’t think anyone else felt/saw/thought this. The one who sacrifices his life, the one who pains and sleeps and screams in solitude all to make us see that we’re not alone. We share existence; it’s the one who is not scared of it, who recites it who is the artist.
Reflecting against the settled, gray fog the candle flame flickering on my coffee table seems split. Dancing twin ghosts in a slow, calm dark. Stillness. Still life. Life is art. People ruin it, ignore it, mock it; artists capture it. Our mirror. When the world is quiet its image whispers poems.
The artist understands. So when others inevitably disappoint, let existence speak to you, comfort you. Existence is art, frameless.