I had a lot of random thoughts today. One of them being, what is art? What makes an artist, genetics or passion? Art can be many things... A beautiful painting of the "woman with a parasol" by Monet, an ancient artifact from the Ming Dynasty, the Czarina of Russia's jewels,a statue of the greek goddess Nike(in picture), the way your heart skips a beat when you see your secret crush, the way the your hair whips your face on a windy day, the sound of crickets in the silence of the night, the way your mind wanders to far away places and times as though you're made of air, and many other things that at times seem so insignificant that we don't even notice it's existence. I mean, how many of us actually notice that the sun looks like a silver ball of light at noon or that how many stars there are in the sky? When was the last time we looked at the sky for reasons other than to ascertain whether it is likely to rain or not? Now, if art is all of these things, then that would make all of us artists. It's just that some of us are more passionate about it than others. We create art daily just by putting a smile on someone's face or with our footsteps on the sandy beaches and our slightly off key hums when we think no one's listening. Art can be both beautiful and painful, if a smile is an art then so is a tear, or dark sky that is about to empty out it's soul onto our already burdened hearts, even the mumbles of discontent that we make when we think no one's listening and at the very least our painted fingernails.
Art. It puts smiles on our faces or portrays the sadness and grief that our heart feels; it can be many things to many people. What is beautiful and artistic to me may not be the essence of art to somebody else, but as long as we acknowledge that art is akin to our emotions in that it can never be interpreted or understood completely, we will learn to to accept it for what it is and finally look at it the way all great artists do; It has a life of it's own that evolves in it's own time and evokes in people a myriad of feelings that have a revolution of their own as time goes by, and each time it shows us a different part of itself, to share and to behold. Revel in it while you can, because art like time waits for no man, and we can only be grateful that we were privileged enough to see it and to make it even.
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