I tend to look at life in a fairly pragmatic manner. If you’re a jerk, I don’t want you around. If you’re spouting nonsense, I won’t listen to you. I’m not a planner but I know I can run the 8 miles from work to our house if something terrible happens. (Weird, I know. Shut up.) I am hard to impress and make a point to be more well read than anyone I might end up disagreeing with. If you’re stupid once, I expect it from you continually and if you are shrewd once, I don’t expect you to ever show your real hand.
There is a very distinct line drawn between what (and who) has value to me and what doesn’t. I won’t ever tell anyone where the line is, but if you’re attentive you can figure it out pretty quickly.
But sometimes, my value system gets knocked on its head.
And that something (obviously) is art.
Art has almost no value in a survival type scenario. It’s not something I seek out because I have time to forever being enjoying manmade beauty.
Yet still, sometimes I see something, read something… and everything changes.
It doesn’t change the way I see the world in some overt, striking fashion; it’s subversive, it wrecks my preconceived notions of how the world should work… of what holds value and why. This art isn’t mind-blowing in any particular way. In fact, most people would likely just walk on by.
Maybe that’s why it hits me the way it does? Because it’s nothing life-changing at all. In fact, I might not even agree with it.
But somehow it agrees with me. And I don’t know why, but that matters.