I rarely ever remember any of my dreams. The images fade away as quickly as they are formed but still, the ideas remain. Although I don't remember the content of my dreams, most often I remember some kind of feeling or ideal that it invoked. Last night was one of these nights. I vaguely remember random people in my life, including professors and friends, telling me what was true and what wasn't about random things, most of which I don't remember. But, as I woke up, the idea of what art was ingrained into my memory.
Who defines art? What is it? and how can somebody label it as good or bad? These questions seem unanswerable to me. Creation is art. But, is destruction art? So many questions, so few answers. But, as I think about it more, I'm not so sure that I want any. Art is freedom, the ability to create and express oneself and ideals. The idea of confining art within parameters of definition seems like an inhibitor to real creation and expression. Maybe somehow, I like not knowing exactly what art is.
joeblack
picasso
Duchamp
Damien Hirst
EPOS 257
unknown














































