Project Blog It: The Function of Art

All I'm up for right now is thinking about how art has functioned in my own life. I confess there have been times that my exposure to certain art forms made me feel set apart from the riff-raff. Growing up in the sticks, I'd return home from a summer in Dallas after going to the art museum, the the symphony and the theatre and would look down my nose at the poor souls condemned to life within the boundaries of crusing up and down Hwy 281, hanging out at the Bowling Alley Cafe, or drinking beer at Wayne Smith dam. I didn't completely outgrow that sense of superiority--more than once I've inwardly sneered at people who wax rhapsodic about the "art" of Thomas Kinkaid--one of the richest hacks of all time. "Painter of Light" my ass. But I digress.

Art has brought me solace. Years ago I had a dream in which I was completely alone in the Kimbell Art Museum. There was no sound and it was blissfully cool. I use the memory of that dream as self-guided meditation now when I'm stressed or grieving. At times I "see" particular pieces on the walls, but most of the time, it is about Louis Kahn's building itself.

Art has pissed me off. Art rather bungled has made me laugh (bed rolling across the stage while Rodolfo sings his heart out to the consumptive Mimi) and it has moved me to tears. I have felt closer to friends because of art and I've faced personal demons and false assumptions because of art. I have been provoked and aroused by art.

After all, it really is all about me.