Angel, All Art

Every part of us is art; the moles in the crooks of arms, the freckles that paint our cheeks like stars and the calluses worked into our palms a triptych displayed on vast planes of dermis. Wrinkles that crease into pages of skin conceal poems and blue purple veins that run underneath beige sing with effortless vibrancy, pretty as paintings that sit in a museum. We are art embodied from head to toe, pigment coursing through even the smallest of capillaries in our fingertips. Everyday we don art and we eat art and we make art; and some works we find to our liking, others not so much.

Art is subjective in a way that most things cannot be. The moon revolves around the earth and the sun rises every morning, but a blank paper with a single black dot could be interpreted in infinite ways. Displayed in the centre of a showcase room, it would receive an array of comments; some would croon over how simplistic yet artistic it is, the blackhole a stark contrast to the blank pristine. Others would express their disdain at its lack of creativity or colour, and fewer may choose to ignore it totally. Even fewer may wish to purchase it, revealing a spectrum of perspectives, all over a single black dot.

To explain the stunning variety of responses I would like to explore an aspect of human nature, namely likes and dislikes. If not for the fact that our preferences differ vastly from each other, there would not exist such a wide spectrum of reactions. The likes and dislikes of an individual are based on two factors, perception and state of mind. The former is best expressed by the phrase ‘your red may not be my red’, which considers the possibility of humans perceiving stimuli in different ways, and therefore reacting differently in favour or against. Furthermore, genetic traits can impact choices by making the stimulation of certain neural pathways more pleasurable, increasing one’s inclination towards visual, auditory or kinaesthetic elements. State of mind conversely revolves around the circumstances of an individual, their environment, age and mood to name a few. These all affect one’s tendency to like or dislike something - for example, the environment an individual grows in is likely to contain some measure of pleasure and pain. This would influence one’s behaviour, thinking and consequently one’s partiality towards a piece of art.

Returning to our masterpiece, if the black dot had instead been The Mona Lisa by Da Vinci, there would still be nothing more it could have done to hold sway to people's comments. The portrait is undeniably one of the most realistic and famous artworks to exist, but there will always be critics ready to tear down lovely Lisa's face. Similarly, no matter how flawless a work of art we may be, we will always face people in real life who take a dislike to us, or seemingly never fail to have a snide comment ready when we meet them. And despite knowing the sinking feeling in our heart as a consequence of such feedback, we will all walk away from our role as an artwork on the wall occasionally and personify a museum visitor to appraise or degrade other artworks in our lives. Such assessments are unavoidable whether they are actually voiced out or whispered internally, and thus it has to be noted that even though it cannot be controlled, criticism is not necessarily detrimental. Fundamentally, it is a corrective exercise that can therefore cause development and progression on an individual and societal level. Regarding artwork or humans, criticism can be considered the study, evaluation and interpretation of a subject. The issue is when personal emotions come into play, both for the giver and the receiver. Opinions are very often influenced by or based on one’s own feelings, hence the critiques of most observers may involve bias or a lack of necessary emotional detachment. As the receiver is probably divulging part of their personality that is closely linked to their self-esteem and image, they would likewise be unable to emotionally detach from the situation, hence getting offended or dejected over the provided critique.

As the main organiser of the magnificent artwork you're becoming, your job scope ranges from the organiser to the director, planner to presenter; it is an extensive workload, and having other artists to take a piece of your burden does help immensely. But ultimately, you are the deciding factor of what goes on you as a canvas - what kinds of critiques you accept, what you choose to work on, whether to cut some artists out of your pet project. And as a result, if someone were to express their dislike of what you showcase, it hurts you doubly as an artist and as the art.

But do they really matter? You have dozens of artists invested in you, and even more people who think highly of the perfect sculpture you have become. Under the lights the lines in your skin are highlighted silver, perfectly stray strands of hair illuminated, the spark in your eye intensified.

We were all born as blank canvases into this world, and are slowly shaped by many artists. We fold paper planes the way our friends taught us in first grade and everytime we sit on buses we think about how our fathers used to buckle us in. Every cello melody I listen to I see a figure behind my eyes, their own alight with determination; and once in a while I reread a letter that a boy gave me, reminiscing a time when we kissed under the rain. I drink boba everyday because my brother offered me a sip when i was seven, and tequila in a mug because a girl who no longer talks to me made me try it that way. The searing in my throat outdoes the burning in my eyes, but it's no less overwhelming than the suffocating love swelling in me. There are books I love because someone I loved loved them first, and I stopped folding the corners of pages just to see the stars in their eyes bloom. I silently count the number of sweets before dividing it between me and you because my mother said it was polite; and I write post-its to people I see trying to melt into the corner of rooms because someone did it for me on the first day of school. I am a mosaic of everyone I’ve ever loved and known, even for a heartbeat; and so are you, angel. So are you.

You're your own work of art, and you should be your most fervent visitor.