What is Art? Is it love? Is it in our heads?
Is it a medium through which we proceed to mediate and interpret what we see?
If madness is piled on a page or canvas, is it nonsense or is it art since we made it?
What if I make it faded?
Is it intentional or subconscious?
Does it go back to being nonsense?
Does it need to be created?
Or is nature enough to name it?
If a paint can materializes midair over a white page spills and paints it all red, yet across the earth I decide to paint only red on the empty page.
Are they both art?
Are they both the same?
The difference can’t be seen.
And I only took part in the one in front of me.
Must it be beautiful for it to be considered art?
Is art incapable of being ugly and dark?
Is there no objectivity to what it is?
Is it subjectively bound to what the individual decides of it?
Can it be wrong if it’s someone independent view of the world regardless of how cruel it comes out?
Can art be embodied regret?
Ideas yet to be brought from the depths of the abyss?
Do they exist in a perpetual state of energy for anyone to tune in?
To drag it out and make it a reality within these three dimensions we’re in?
What is art? Is it love? Is it in our heads?