Art and its impact upon myself

I went to the Seattle Art Museum yesterday. It was nice to see expressions of life through the eyes of other people. Some of the paintings, in their portrayal of a human expression or arrangement of landscape, seem to be in possession of a greater understanding of the human condition than I. I saw a porcelain or marble figure of the sculpture`s daughter and it was beautiful. My eyes were drawn to the lines around the eyes and mouth. She looked so regal and intelligent yet so young, in the flower of youth. A painting of a cove somewhere along the western coast struck me with the same poignancy. The key feature was a mass of roiling clouds pierced through by brilliant shafts of light. That light fell upon a recently rain-soaked scene, so all was glistening rock, bush, sand and water. Sometimes I am amazed at the surety these artist display. Every stroke seems to fall into place. But maybe looking at it from the end result I simply don`t see all the toil behind it.

There were also modern and abstract artwork on display as well. Its funny but before I always admitted those into the category of artwork. But now I look through those galleries and fail to find much that appeals to me much less consider artwork. I find myself saying "that's not art." But why?, I ask myself. What right do I have to define what is and isn`t art? People say that failure to find any meaning in a painting is failure by the viewer, somehow I just don`t have a deep enough understanding of symbology, art history or obscure culture references. Does one need all that to enjoy art? Should it be a puzzle of images, each linked deep into the fabric of our history? Or should true art strike deep into the heart and lodge there, forever altering how you perceive the world?

I find it difficult to solve the answers to those questions without having a firm grasp on what art is. It can`t be defined solely as anything created by hand or with some touch of a theme or pattern. Maybe Im talking about Great Art here, art that acts as a mirror, that reflects those strong feelings and desires back upon yourself. The longer I look at great art the more I see the artist, his influence, her passion or madness impressed in whatever medium worked out. And yet, seeing the artist`s blood and sweat visible in angles, plains, colors and strokes never ceases to cause a mirrored reaction within myself. I too wonder that because I can see these emotions and evident artistic drive in the creations, do I as well possess those qualities? Not they`re artistic abilities but the sudden madness to create, the deep emotions that come out stark and strong and the almost unendurable urge to believe that my art is of goodness and part of the human spirit which, strongest, screams to fly.

If great art then speaks to the soul of a person similarly impassioned then what is bad art? To me it seems it is art that doesn`t have human-ness to it, (doesn`t sound right) Art that hides behind intellectual symbolism; geometry focused. While symmetrical or asymmetrical yet balanced composition is important it shouldn`t be the sole focus of any piece.

Bad artwork is also those done by artist rejecting the past traditions in favor of any new techniques that has a hint of originality, even if it is bereft of any connection to the human soul. (soul or feeling?) I have been there too, have felt the bitter sting of a millennium of tradition, have felt the suffocation of history`s edict saying "If it has not come before it is not right." I know the rebellious, almost overwhelming urge to proclaim myself original and born of new ideas and new techniques. But, and I say this with only the barest hint of an understanding, that the past evolved out of great men`s same rebellious instincts and that inside each dusty, old tradition was a new idea of a dreamer that reached for the stars.

True art then is art free of the argument of style, free of the clash of traditions, picked clean of both immaturity and the failing of old age. It is not only those pieces that shine on the greatness of ourselves but also illuminate the fear and depravity of weakness in the dark. In other words the whole of ourselves not in the stark light of noon but in the radiant light of a new day or ending shadows of twilight. Truth is not exposed by average effort but by subtle angles and nuanced patches of color, by creating that which speaks to the mind of forms and shapes of that almost insubstantial muse, truth.