What the F@ck is Art?
Art: a canvas veiled by a human, who seized the perks of evolutionary finger dexterity? A transactional intercourse between the bourgeoisie and the executor? Manifestation of one’s own reality or a desperate quest for one’s own authenticity?
I don't have the answers… We can spend entirety problematizing the definition, and yet the semantics and colloquial nature of human interaction will prevail, succumbing us to a generally consented comprehension. One constant attribute of the Arts, however, starting from its first documented inception in Giorgio Vasari’s works, is its ability to evoke, convey and subdue the spectator to a mere moment of contemplation. Sometimes liberal and fertile, others authoritarian and narrated, navigated through the invisible blueprint of one’s intent.
In today’s dynamics and deluge of opinions, we may struggle to extrapolate the intrinsic value and experience the true affinity with a piece of art and its creator. Often, we will diverge from our personally-induced interpretations as we fear the lack of sagacity, and we will earnestly obey the contemplation transcribed by a curator or by the omniscient art market. Such deficiency of freedom seems perplexing to me. I surely wish to see more people learn about art from industry’s renowned sources, but most importantly, I wish to observe more people seeking art as a place of refuge, self exploration and reflection. Regardless, if you are a creator yourself or a receiver on the other side of the meddle, we all have the capacity to unleash our imagination. And don’t be let down if you are convinced that creative gist is not a part of your genome, for you, most certainly, were nurtured to believe it.
Rather unorthodox, perhaps repugnant to some, Francis Bacon once avowed: ‘Painting is the pattern of one's own nervous system being projected on canvas’. Think about it though… Your every encounter with an art work, be it music, a motion picture or a pictorial surface, is an ultimate invasion of someone’s inner world. Chaotic brush stroke, whiplashes and scraps are the earnest manifestation of an abiding, amplified noise inside an artist’s soul. Unabashedly, I choose to believe that the sacred intimacy is relinquished for the sake of emancipating the artist’s howl to adjure the spectator to postulate; most crucially, to feel. We need to learn how to let ourselves feel. To surrender to the alluring power of our emotions. For me, the epitome of art is exactly its transcending quality, that enables us to go beyond our physical sleeve to grant an aperture to discover and validate the prisoner inside of us.
It’s, of course, a perpetuate exercise. The uncharted may be a petrifying place to dive in. But we are ought to persevere, we are ought to discover salvation from the within, to repent from old patterns of denial. Bestow yourself with courage, so that the next time you go to a museum or hear a song that reverberates for days, immerse yourself into deeper contemplation, enjoy the reverie your mind creates. I urge you to endeavor and recognize the momentum embedded within your feelings: What are its origins? Does it have a taste of reminiscence? Ask yourself questions. Ponder. Let the arts pave the route to the unknown, untouched oblivion inside of you. Embrace the magic of discomfort, so that you can finally reap the harvest you planted in your fertile grounds.
P.S. Prado is free for students on Sundays ;)
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