When the soul has been activated, the most minute and mundane things become the nature of art itself. Suddenly there is poetry in the cracks of the pavement, music in the way that the leaves move on the trees; yet man refuses to let that beauty be appreciated in the moment, instead capturing it and taking ownership of it, removing the context by placing it in a frame and hanging it on a wall with other snapshots. However, the beauty is not within the thing itself; it is a dynamic state of being, the electricity in the air in the space between the viewer and the viewed, an alteration of awareness. This may change from one moment to the next, as it requires the framework of the observer’s mind to be built just so, while the subject is also in a constant transformative state, somewhere between birth and rebirth, decomposing by the second.
Why must man crave dominance over beauty in such a way that destroys the depth of the moment? They pull it forward from the shadows, the dark places that were never supposed to be beautiful, and force perfection on the imperfect, loveliness in the lonely and the suffering.
The only reasonable deduction is that we are as hypocritical as we are hollow, searching for things that we can call beautiful in order to find connection and beauty within ourselves. We are all mute but for the language of art, the poets and the painters are the philological masters, speaking in snapshots and sculptures. It is our longing for connection that gives birth to art, and our projection of a greediness for intimacy and acceptance that demands our dominance over that which is beautiful.