Life as Art

We are all artists of kind.

We create our worlds from the raw materials of prejudice and genetics. These worlds are private temples populated with our tastes, and why we like them, our preferences, and why it is better to prefer what we prefer.

Our worlds are parlours decorated by their sole inhabitant.

This would be no problem, if we didn’t suck at art. Our produce is not even worthy of the table at a charity fete. We are never Shakespeare, Beethoven, Picasso. Our walls are hung with such repetitious tripe even Warhol would blush. Given the chance of genuine creativity, of altering our tastes, of a masterpiece so masterful it seems impossible that we created it, we fawn and excuse away the copy pasta.

We are artists of the interior, but we lack bravery and originality.

That which we consider to be beauty is considered beautiful by all. Where is the ownership if your ideal is shared by all? We replicate the artifice and display it as our own.

I agree that the nudes that grace your cavern are what you find attractive. I just think you missed your chance to have a gallery of your own works.

No comments

Speak your mind

Powered by Blogger.