One of the greatest reasons I view life as art is that it’s how I wish to see myself. Art has many forms, purposes, messages and is rather subjective in consumption but objective in existence. It is colorful, full of life when empty and embodies the oxymoron of the individual group. It is a composition that can be appreciated as the individual piece or a piece of the whole. The way the brush sweeps, the rhythm fluctuates, the words roll or the laughter infects. It is the beauty of every detail, the fingerprint of every artist and the body of works that reflect growth as an individual. When we analyze art, we take into account numerous perspectives. Some that are our own, others that were gifted and begrudgingly the ones we didn’t know we held. We think about the medium, the creator, the method and decipher what each thing means to us. The art we consider becomes more than what’s presented, but the embodiment of ideas. Art in its very existence is abstract and a launching point to find out more about the life it has taken on.
Yet, just like with what’s generally and traditionally considered art, there are those ignore and dismiss it as just a canvas. There are those that refuse to partake because of the source. There are those that ignore, invalidate and refuse to think about the what, let alone think about the why based on nothing more than a perceived aesthetic. This is what makes me love art. This is what makes me curious about life. There’s always more to know and I cannot rest on anything just being what I see, what I assume or what I’m told. If I did, how could I ever see myself as more?