Art is something which knows no bounds. As a form without limits, it is difficult to judge the difference between ‘good’ or ‘bad’ art. Something that is lewd and vile can be interpreted as beautiful to one, while a piece that appears perfect to someone may seem cheesy to another. Since judging art is subjective there is no way to define art as being of a certain stature. One’s personal experiences, taste, visual preferences, all contribute to how one perceives a piece. Although an artist may write, draw, or create something with a certain intention, the audience may not perceive it the way it was meant to be perceived, as is the case majority of the time.
As a means of expression, so much of art is relative to the person who creates it. Some believe, however, that the art already exists on its own and merely takes an individual to be open enough to make it come to life. Without confines, it seems as though anything can be called ‘art’. Animal cruelty and self abuse have been portrayed as art and people have accepted it. If one is able to justify their intent behind the creation of a piece, people accept it as so. Since art is so subjective, it is difficult to set criteria to judge it.
For me, art is therapeutic. If I feel as though the artist was genuine in the making of the piece, I can appreciate the work. If it lacks feeling and is stagnant, I lose that vital connection which makes art what it is. Art is in nature, is in the way one looks at you, and in the way we communicate. It is freedom, it is a personal fuck you, and is a way to escape. Art says what you can’t and sometimes keeps you from speech. A hideout, a collection of words, an anonymous postcard; I don’t know art, but does it know me?
