The Meaning of Art

Late night blog writing, oh how I love thee. So I was asked today why I love Shakespeare, apparently no one my age in fact reads his plays—or at the least not for fun. As the conversation persisted I was asked, “well are you artsy? You have to be artsy to like Shakespeare.” Well I would have argued, but the thing is I am artsy and love my art. In all reality the conversation was mindless, at least during the time, but it did get me thinking. Why do I love my art in the way that I do? I don’t think it’s just because I made it, saw it or in some rare cases even wrote it. But its where I can just be me, I don’t need to explain myself, the interpretation is up to the viewer.

The viewer can not judge me, at least not harshly, for what I create for that reason. My past is bright in many areas, but just as everyone else I have those dark spots. My art lets out that pain, sometimes the hate that I turn inwardly and this is safe for me because they see what they want, not what I wrote (in most cases).

I show people with my art things that I would never be able to say, not because I don’t want to as many people have misinterpreted it to mean, but because I can not find the words. The words do nothing but evade me. It leaves me alone, depressed, and often spiraling. My art is what saves me. This is why I love art, not just my art. For the simple reason of being reminded that I am not alone, everyone feels the way that I do at least at times. 

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