The world is made out of art

Cattura 2

The world is made out of art. The way each one of us wakes up, the way we put
our feet on the ground while heading to make coffee in the morning, the feeling
of emptiness that fills our lungs through the thick morning air. Every breath in the
winter cold could be longly described by paragraphs in books, the way we perceive
spring colours could be explained only through paintings and the melancholy of
autumnal afternoons only through rough voices in slow songs.

We are art. But
art is not only beautiful, it can be purposely unpleasant, it can be messed up, it
can be unexplainable or evident, it can be violent or serene. Art is made by artists
and in the same way we make ourselves and are made by others. We can decide
which current to follow, we can try and be original, we can make mistakes, paint
out of the lines, choose the wrong compositions and we can learn from each
mistake and improve as artists and as art. But the people we have around, they
are artists and art too and they pose for us and draw us at the same time. We are
art, we are artists and we are critics too.We decide to surround ourselves with
those that we consider best at drawing and posing, the ones that can write the
best character of us in their novel, that can strike the right chords to make us
feel at home. We want the closest to us to be like Leonardo Da Vinci and we want
them to see us like he saw Monna Lisa. He saw part of himself through the texture
of her skin, he saw his childhood, he saw the perfection of nature that for
so long he tried to reproduce. She made him discover and find himself and he improved
her, he changed her for the best and made her so intriguing that many
wanted to destroy her, jealous of how beautiful her portrait was. We want to be
that kind of art, we want her eyes, that cut through people’s skin and make their
entrails twist at the thought of what we are able to see of them, we want to smile
gracefully and put that smile as a cover for our sadness like she does, we want to
be both young and wise like she is. When we are art we selfishly find the artist that
can paint us and see us as masterpieces, when we are artists we want to show to
the ones we love how they truly are in our eyes hoping that they’ll understand
that Leonardo defined Monna Lisa as much as she defined him and that only
together they are immortal.

To read possibly while listening to ‘Slow Hands’ by Interpol.

Sara De Leo

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