What is Art?

My first post on this blog, The Irrelevance of the Artist, spurred some debate with an intellectual friend of mine. He insisted that the artist was integral to the art because so much of art is its meaning and intention, which is derived directly from said artist. I disagreed: once the artist is done creating his work, his intention and his opinion matter no more than any other observer’s. Very quickly, I realized the foundation of our argument was not disagreement regarding the role of the artist as much as it was a disagreement on what art is.

To him, I gathered, art was something deliberately created to carry the artist’s intent. To me, such a definition was too limiting. It meant art could only be man-made and have a specific purpose or statement in mind. To me, art is an interaction and a provocation. Not necessarily something meant to elicit anger and frustration but something meant to elicit. Period.

Therefore, in a way, everything is art, n’est-ce pas? From the laughter of a child which inspires awe to the cockroach which sparks repulsion. From Picasso’s The Old Guitarist to the strum of a guitar of an old man on the street. Even intangible concepts such as the incomprehensible infinity of the universe and unimaginable promise of the future are art. Art is thought and emotion and physicality and dirt and nonsense and sense. It is human consciousness and everything the consciousness reacts with. The idea that something that vast could be narrowed down into something physical, created with an intention in mind is ludicrous, perhaps even blasphemous.

While art is as old as the human race itself, the need obsession with defining exactly what it is has come about fairly recently (that we know of). I will not pretend to know why nor will I publish my thoughts with a possible why if and when I do come up with one. Because it doesn’t matter. My opinion – this entire blog post – is not fact. It is truth. It is art. You, reading this, what is happening right now is art. And as the artist typing this blog post, I want to let you know that it’s almost done. So I’m about to step back now and let you think and feel what you want. Maybe I’ll leave you with a Herman Melville poem because… hey, why the hell not? It even rhymes.

Art

In placid hours well-pleased we dream

Of many a brave unbodied scheme.

But form to lend, pulsed life create,

What unlike things must meet and mate:

A flame to melt – a wind to freeze;

Sad patience – joyous energies;

Humility – yet pride and scorn;

Instinct and study; love and hate;

Audacity – reverence. These must mate,

And fuse with Jacob’s mystic heart,

To wrestle with the angel – Art.