Essentially, art is and will always be subjective. It is the uniqueness within the mysteries of our very own judgments and thought processes that allow differing interpretations of what exactly is a spectacular beauty, a true ‘piece of art’, and what we may dismiss as a failed attempt. The philosophical question remains, perhaps eternally unanswerable; ‘Why do we esteem certain creations as so-called art?’. I dare attempt to answer this, albeit, fully understanding that even my answer is subjective and may not, nay, WILL NOT, adhere to most if not anyone at all and their own interpretation of their reality.

It is a secretive conspiracy within our own depths, within the layers that have yet to be exposed, those layers that manage to somehow send chills down your spine when you hear a particular passage in a musical composition, yet placing a truly meaningful reason as to why in words seems a fleeting exercise in futility. It’s as though as we evolved as a species and became more and more cognizant of our existence, and the ever-growing mystery as to what is expected from our perceivable time here, we have become less and less aware of the primal awe that our predecessors may have had when, for example, the recognition between the vibrant hues of colors in an early meadow, with the varying flora, and how their organic dynamics presented as a visual attractor. Perhaps our ancestors were in awe of such stark beauty and were able to determine exactly why it was that the perception of different refracting light patterns was moving? It’s as though the beauty that is art is destined to fade over time as we become accustomed to certain ‘novel’ patterns that become ‘not-so-novel’ with its proliferation, and as a result, the wonder dies within our hearts, the way that the illusion collapses when you’ve watched a movie for the second time, and it doesn’t provide the same level of entertainment once the twist is known to you ahead of its presentation. We are destined to weep at the altars of all our creations.

But there is hope. It is in the form of the very essence that itself drives art into being disremembered and obsolete. It is in the form of the perpetual state of dreams that inspire new work in all artists and the mystery into how and why it is that “art is art”, the same unending font of disillusion is the same ever-yielding font of creation, and as long as there is breath in every artist, there is aspiration to create and present, to captivate with our very own and unique amalgamations of our deepest mysteries.

So, at the risk of sounding tiringly philosophical; What is art? It is the ancient mystery that dwells forever out of reach from understanding, but always within our spectrum of emotions.

Copyright © Ernesto Mora@ThePOEMHOME All Rights Reserved.