Art isn't an idea, it isn't a theory, it isn't a passing reflection in a
moving bus window, a momentary reflection of banal existence, flashed out, and
forgotten.
Art is something else. Art is an artifact. A token from one age to another, that transmits
something deeply personal, deeply human.
Like the smell of a good perfume, or the taste of a good dinner, or love of one's child;
good
art can not be quantified, explained; but it DOES exist. It captures the essence of that
which it is to
be human, and when they tear away the lava, and uncover the pictures and statues that
have lay hidden for eons, the painted face of the boy, the out-stretched marble hand of the
mother, speaks beyond language, culture and time, and touches the heart. Great art, like
beauty and love, cannot be defined, cannot be created from or addressed to the intellect, it does not follow
any theories, but it is nevertheless real: very real.