Why create Art?

A student once asked his teacher: „why does one create art?”, to which the teacher replied without hesitation: „because it has to be done”.

Surprised by the unnaturally short response, the student simply nodded and sat with a tense, focused expression, as if waiting for his teacher to elaborate. Having noticed the change in the student’s face, with a sharp, quick glance, the teacher provokingly continued, as if the recent pause was intentional.

“Art is an urge, it is a necessity. It’s angst, it’s intense orgasmic happiness, it’s pissing, it is hunger and thirst it is pressure and relief. Art is where the soul goes to the bathroom.”

The boy chuckled at this ridiculous remark. He thought to himself: “Art is supposed to be something beautiful, something that gives this world a sense of harmony, life — a meaning. What is the point of art if not it isn’t for provoking noble emotions? It felt as if the teacher was mocking thousands of the greatest creations of men: paintings, sculptures, monuments, and temples. Growing impatient with this nonsense, the puzzled and angered student decided to go ahead and confront his teacher: „How can you compare pissing with „the birth of Venus”? Have you gone mad?”.

The man tilted his head lightly, allowed his chair to gently rock, breathed the smoke of his pipe in, and smirked at the boy. „You might not like me saying this, but Boticelli definitely pissed „the birth of venus” right out of his soul, as graciously and magnificently as he did. He created something that had to come into existence, then and there. And it did. In many ways, it sprouts, grows, transforms, and takes shape within an artist for as long as it takes for the artist to realize a way to bring it into reality. Botticelli had his ways of doing this, Duchamp — his. But whichever way it comes out, whether aesthetically pleasing or profoundly disturbing and revolting, art must manifest into reality.

The boy shrugged: “So, you are saying, art exists independently of our consciousness? Since it can just choose to come into life willy-nilly like that?”

“That’s a good question, son!” exclaimed the teacher, with a gentle smile on his face, looking unseeingly at an unspecified corner in the room and continued, “the universe is one hell of an interesting thing. The unimaginable multitudes of bizarre contradictions and dark, terrifying nothingness stretch across unthinkably vast distances. And then here we are, on our little marble. So small and fragile against cosmic violence and entropy.

But nature created us such that we can observe it, and with our awareness of ourselves collect little trinkets and clues as to what exactly is going on here. So beautiful we are in our insignificance. In a cosmic second, a human is born, they live an entire life, and have an entire world of worries, pains, heartbreaks, hugs, tears, “goodbyes” and “ I love you”s.

Our struggle to live, our naivete, our fears, our anger, and our peace, are all beautiful and significant to us. We are the only ones that we know of, who can experience them, and reflect upon them. And we are the only ones that we know of, who are capable of artistic expression. It is an incredible evolutionary gift that forces us to focus our attention on all aspects of our momentary self-awareness and consciousness.

So no, art does not exist outside our consciousness, it is who we are. It is what the universe thinks, feels, and experiences through us. No matter how ugly or gorgeous, thought-provoking or devoid of meaning, insightful or dull. Art lets us look back on ourselves and emphasize with others on a profound level. It is the truth. Sometimes it is fulfilling, and awe-inspiring, but often it is horrifying, brutal, merciless in its bluntness, and shameless in its vulgarity. But we must face it, we must let it be. We must acknowledge it and come to terms with it. It is life and it longs to be lived.”

The man reached out to the desk to pick up his tea and locked his gaze on the boy’s face badly lit under the dimming light of the candles.

“It has to be done”.

Darkness covers the room like a thick satin veil.

The night is calm and quiet.

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