Does art really make a difference? Or is it just another medium of elite entertainment? Or something that gratifies your senses?
I often wonder- like all those who attempt to reconfirm faith in their cause- if beauty really changes things at all. If it can really touch a person, a soul...if it can nudge a society toward refinement and culture.
Sometimes as I open myself to metaphors, their meanings and their secret depths.....I gasp and marvel for a while and then I feel somehow disappointed that it doesn't really leave a mark....It washes over me and I'm still the same. Unmoved. And I go back to the same world I came from.
Anything larger than life is expected to take you away from reality....maybe therein lies the paradox. Art as fantasy or as a response to the real....depends on the notion behind creation and the whim of the perceiver. But sometimes thats all there is....a whimsical whim. It agonizes me, pains me that this conception/comprehension is so fragile, so elusive. Yet it is so tremendous....it swallows me whole. And yet I cannot touch it.
I can sympathize with Rand's Dominique as she wants to destroy beauty because she cannot bear to see it mutilated by.....life. In fact, I envy her profound passion. To her frozen perfection leaps to life and the rest fades away.
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