On Art
How Dull Life Would Be Without It
Art is that breath of air you take that feels like entropy. It’s dynamic and confusing, and at times, a bit aloof. It is what we see behind our eyes, where thoughts and sights collaborate on a vision. For me, art has been a revelation.
Neither of my parents was an artist, or so I thought. There is a painting of three naked ladies and three clothed men about ten feet from me right now, signed by S Charles. That was my dad. He was an artist. Aren’t we all in some way?
In the twenty years I had with her, I never uncovered my mom’s artistic tendencies, but I have a strong feeling they were there. I was probably too preoccupied with adolescence to notice. Her love was art, so beautiful.
Art is a release. It’s a mirror. Sometimes, it’s a curse, if only temporarily, while the demons breathe through the art and free us from our cage. I’m a poet. That’s weird to say because no one knows I am a poet, but for a few souls. Or but for Medium. I am a writer.
Almost within arm’s reach hangs one of my paintings. In my office, one door over, is a book of drawings. The universe is a fucking masterpiece. Whoever made me in this simulation made me interesting, even if few people know the depths of my connection with art. Art is bloodlust.
I was sitting in bed tonight, a little too early to sleep, but too late to keep reading. I was in limbo. Now, I’m up. Because art. I don’t have a television in my bedroom. I stopped doing that more than ten years ago. It’s changed my connection to art. A Su-en Wong drawing called “The Bear” stares back at me. Always and forever.
I was watching the second episode of City on Fire on my laptop. I don’t even remember when I watched the first episode. The opening credits rolled, and it was a work of art. It was like watching a collage being made before your eyes. I don’t even know who has seen this show, and the opening credits are tremendous.
That’s the thing about art. It can be so anonymous. It can hide in plain sight. Nature is the purest art form. It is living, breathing art. So are we. Maybe if we thought of all humans as pieces of art, we could find the good in them. Yes, even them.
When I owned my art galleries and in my time as a museum curator, I reveled in a viewer’s hatred of an exhibition. I would say, “Do you know how close to love your hatred of this art is?” They usually looked bewildered and kept on about how much the art disturbed them.
But isn’t all art a reflection of what we feel inside at the moment? How can you appreciate an abstract painting when you hate yourself? I don’t know, but I hope someone can. My inner turmoil could never derail my obsession with Francesca Woodman. I linked to her show at Tate Modern because that’s where I fell in love.
I left art more than ten years ago, but it follows me around my house every second of every day. It speaks to me like I wish people would. It’s also silent when I need it to be silent, which is all the time. Art is a bridge to something otherworldly.
It was an interesting choice of words: 'otherworldly'. I took my son to see a show with that title at the Museum of Arts and Design in 2011. I also took him on a studio visit to meet one of the artists in the show, Patrick Jacobs. He is 24 now. We still talk about that studio visit.
When you bend down to look into a lens in the wall, only to find the most beautiful landscape you’ve ever seen. Yeah, that’s what Patrick Jacobs was doing back then, and it was otherworldly. I can still see it because you can’t unsee art.
Art attaches itself to you. The more you open to it, the more you find to cluster all over your body. Our entire human skeletal system is art. These lines on my hands? Art. The sky; fucking incredible. Look up. Why did Ricky Fitts film the bag in American Beauty? Art.
This might sound condescending, but I don’t really care. Look at more art. So many people used to ask me what a piece of art was about or what the artist meant by it. My answer was always the same. What do you think it’s about? What does it mean to you?
Are my words art? Yes. You might disagree, but that’s the universal nature of art. It just is. These words just are. We may not see them the same way because no two people see art the same way. Art is a snowflake. It’s a clover. It’s the bittersweet nectar of the Gods.
This could be longer, but it’s not. Art calls the shots.
2025
