I’m writing about art and just rambling

Writing about a piece of art is almost like being an actor. We try to put ourselves in the mind of the artist, make a desperate attempt at seeing, hearing, smelling and touching the world(s) that spawned him(or her) and from there try to figure out why he did what he did. Like trying to gather the memories and thoughts of a brain splattered on canvas. We could always try figuring it out, but due to our lack of imagination (there’s no way to totally understand the thoughts of another), we never quite understand what the artist means to communicate (consciously and/or subconsciously). Then again we could always look at the piece of work and respond with what it means to us. Even so the meaning of the work could change every time our mind evolves (or devolves) into something else…. then again that applies for just about everything that we’ve given a meaning to. Just look at language. Even that crack in the wall could mean something totally different each time you look at it. Why do we keep giving meanings to things if they’re so infinitely arbitrary? In the end all we’re trying to do is to expand our minds, to exist beyond our bodies. We’re shaping and reshaping our worlds every second that we live, every moment that we think to exist. Before we were born and after we die, we still exist as long as we think about it and create a space for it in our minds. Artwork then only becomes a blatant expression of that imprint of the mind in the physical world. Actually, it’s not just art, it’s every form of human expression: literature, music, food. Expressions of human immortality. We create our religions, our gods, our idols by the mere power of thoughts. What does that make us?
Okay the inadequacy of words and the limitations of my own mental capacity has just stopped me from continuing this midnight ramble. Infinity scares me. I’m just going to go back to writing my art history essay.


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