Art is a magical, revealing, and highly personal form of expression. What a person makes of a piece of art tells so much about them, and their experiences, and their mind. A piece of art, whichever form it might take, can never mean the same thing to different people, and no two people can ever make the exact same piece of art. Sure, people with similar experiences, similar feelings, and similar thoughts will appreciate art in a more similar way, but it can never be the same. Every human has a slightly different outlook on the world, pieced together, second by second, by all the experiences they have had over their life. This, in my opinion, is what makes something art – the individuality behind its creation and interpretation – the individual beauty that people find in things, maybe that no one else could ever find.
But art is different for everyone, and we all connect differently to different forms of art, to different ways of expressing ourselves. We find it easier to engage with some, and easier to create some, and easier to identify with others.
Here is me, and art. Art and me, and the ways that I choose to create, and feel inspired by.
The following is a (heavily edited version of a) letter that I wrote on the night on my grandfather’s death, a couple of weeks ago.
Thank you. Thank you for everything. Thank you for the role you had in making me who I am today. I’m not entirely sure that you know what that role is, or how much you influenced me over the years, but you did.
First of all, though, thank you for the little things.
I don’t know about you, but February has been a mixture of both the incredibly delightful and unbelievably crushing for me. I’ve fought with friends, and found wonderful new opportunities. I’ve lost a family member, and befriended wonderful new people. I’ve discovered secrets I’d rather have not discovered, and I’ve spent time with those I love more than anything. I’ve slipped into some very bad habits, and I’ve learned so much that I’m very grateful for. I’ve found myself in unbelievably awkward situations, and I’ve felt, for the first time in a while, really wanted.
A few days ago, I was just going about my daily business, reading posts, listening to music, trying to stop my cat from leaving me, etcetera etcetera. It was a mediocre day, and I was feeling thoroughly mediocre myself. How uninteresting and boring my life seems.
I came across posts about politics, of course. Mainly Trump and his stupid freaking wall. Posts about people’s personal lives – their birthdays and boyfriends and best friends and demons. Posts about projects and things people are doing, challenges they’re undertaking, mistakes they’re making. Posts about life, how to do it and do it well, how to ensure you get good grades and good hair and good everything.
It was all very unremarkable, as I said. Very mediocre.
Not that the posts weren’t great, I’m sure, but nothing really caught my eye, you know? As I said, I was feeling very mediocre.
Ah, Valentine’s day. What a wonderful celebration of love, and relationships, and happiness, and contentedness, and all things wonderful.
The day when the single population of the earth feel either completely worthless, or are so very grateful for their singleness, and freedom, and all those things that come with being single, that they celebrate so much that they just look desperate.