What is art, she asked

What is art, she asked

“Now, see, you don’t see. What is close to my heart is a product of abstraction, born and existing within an ethereal world, not an object born of concrete matter, time or space; not easily touched upon or visited. Not documented or approved, carved into paper and traded. Only few should be so lucky. No, you miss my point, if your mind only goes down this path; so practical, so weighed in the strict efficiency and industry of our world. What I write is written by the unseeable, the untouchable within – and only then; when this truth is fully realized, can it be seen, can it be touched. You cannot sell and buy this in common currency. You cannot replace its inherent value with the values measured in outside structures; ever so changeable, so unstable. Only by reading and understanding will this work be what it is. Do you understand now?”

But how could she tell the world that she lived within the words? Fully, inescapably? A heart not torn but finally complete. How important it was that she steadfastly remained so – even when it sounded impractical, yes, ludicrous, at best? Her idealism would be shunned, surely, but take away her idealism and you took away her hope. She had to hold on. Tooth and nail. Spirit and heart.

If she did not, then who would?

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