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Saturday, 22 January 2005



I don't know what qualifies as art. I'm not going to ramble on about 'beauty is in the eye of the beholder' or say that 'everything is art' because that seems so said already.
I can say that when I walk around and look in the windows of art galeries in my town, my emotional body turns on. I hate the art that makes my stomach churn and make me feel like vomiting. I hate the pictures where it looks like the artist is trying too hard. I hate the pictures that look like the artist is trying to please the buyer and not himself.
I love the art that gives me a warm fuzzy feeling: paintings of little houses with smoke coming out of the chiminey on a cold day in the mountains. I can live my need for solace through the picture. I love originality. Most of all, I love the art that is of nothing, a few strokes here and there to let the onlookers imgaination run wild.
I guess art is an experience of the internal reflected in the external. All the things I cringe at, are things I cringe at within my own self. All the things I love and find beautiful, I can love about myself.
What is truely wonderful is that all forms of art are expressed and that we can love it or hate it.


I came across this quote by Meredith Monk, composer, singer, director, choreographer:

"Art offers something else--depth, involvement, a new way of looking at the world that we live in, a fresh approach to what we take for granted, a chance to experience freedom of the imagination."

I love what you write, Datta: that art is "an experience of the internal reflected in the external."

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