“Art can only mean something to the artist who creates it.”
I found these lines a little unsettling, although i feel like this is a reaccuring issue throughout the semester and that I have heard them before. Where are we all connected, if we are at all? Are we all chained to one another like circus elephants? I’m not sure if there is an inherent connection or point where we all relate. I think that painting move me for different reasons then the person standing next to me, but I think it still means something to me. I love Degas’ ballerinas, probably because I danced for 10 years, but I am touched by them, the details, the colors. Yet, there is something unsettling about a piece that you create yourself. I love the photos that I hand developed and I am forever attatched to the poems that I write. I’m not sure if they will mean something to anyone, but there is a possibility. They could.