everyone seems to perceive art in their own way.
when a mathematically-inclined mind sees the ever-flowing stream and reliability of numbers, it grows excited. the world seems rich with possibility because of those numbers alone. that is art. art is passion; anything that garners inspiration could be called art, I think.
of course, anything at all could be considered art, in many or one of its million forms. crude or grotesque; displeasing to the eye (which also comes down to the matter of perception); lewd or strange things - can all be examples of artwork at its finest. often, I find the art that is most moving to the soul is something that seems to physically wrench you from yourself, for a minute; feelings typically brought about by that which makes us uncomfortable.
when I personally think of art, I think of the senses. I think of the dirty city streets and the many souls that walk them every day, who are unknown to me and so many others. I think of the way the hot pavement smells when rain graces it in midsummer.
I think of the color blue and how it seems to touch everything in sight. I think of the saxophone and the Spanish guitar. I think of blemished skin, rich with character.
details. small and large, in every form. the overlooked. the under-appreciated.
what did you eat for lunch today?
did you taste it?
what do your eyes look like after a fitful night of dreaming?
this is art,
in my eyes -
By Rhiannon Viola