Not to get bogged down in the philosophical questions of the nature or origins of art, but to think about our interraction with it. That is, of course, an intentionally incomplete sentence (and no i shan't explain it).
Too often, when we think of art we think of the product of art: the painting, the song, the series of photographs, the dance. But, as art is in essence the creative process itself, we may forget the act of creation, the individuality of both the artist and ourselves, the path we travel to reach a conclusion or interpretation.
We look at a painting by Van Gogh or Kandinsky or Rembrandt as an irreplacable remnant of a time passed, a monument of another world that can never be reclaimed. A product, the replication of which is relegated to mere technical facility, an achievement that can or must never be rivaled, but against which we determine the merits of contemporary art. Yet, to what purpose does anyone draw a mountain, a figure, a cafe at night (a rhetorical, but vital question)? To what purpose does anyone interract with a noise making machine? The answer, i feel, is to actively engage life, to ponder the nature of experience and imagine alternative possibilities; to share the experience of life and encounter new ideas. That is, invariably, the path of the artist.
So why not the spectator? To look at, say, the expressionism of Pollock or listen to integral serialist composers without questioning the why of their creation is absurd. What is it about figurative painting that restricted or failed to reflect the creative desires of so many artists? What is it about common practice tonality that repelled so many composers? What inner predjudice causes me laud one artist while disparaging another?
Conversely, cannot a new form of expression cast a dubious loathing of the past? Are we not in turn equally nostalgic for and embarassed by stylistic tropes of past artists? Does our flippant perception of art bear any relation to the art itself, or are we engaged in the process of self evaluation by proxy?
Again, i think we focus too much upon the art product rather than the art. It is not the product, but the process of the artist that speaks of grief, or loss, or beauty, or catharsis, and the act of expression that interacts with medium and style.
My language is dense, formal, my sentence structure complex, my conclusions indefinite. It must be so. I am writing to the concievable universe. My thoughts are fragmented by nature, but in the act of writing them i must also consider the reader. I must try to predict someone elses interpretation of my writing, must communicate my intentions as well as my ideas, leave space for contemplation and rebuttal. It matters very little that i expect few people to actually read this essay; i am engaged in the act of writing, the act of expression, the art of language.
You, the reader (real or imagined) will see only the product. Will you judge me a bad writer for my opening sentence fragment? Will you note the irony of my parenthetical untruth? Will you contruct this prose as a flippant rant, a carefully constructed illustration of my idea, or something else entirely?
For what purpose would anyone write an essay on art and our interraction with it?
