Art is hard.
It’s hard to understand.
Hard to define.
Hard to do.
It never feels perfect; never enough.
As Martha Graham said, it is humanity’s “blessed unrest that keeps us marching on and more alive than the rest.”
It makes you vulnerable.
Its subjective nature makes it hard to talk about; no one else carries that perspective but you.
It rips you down to the bare bones until the fleshy tendon is revealed–the one that connects you to human experience.
And you feel familiar emotions that you’ve never felt.
And you realize that world both within and outside of yourself.
Art is not meant to be comforting.
To remove the discomfort of an art is to remove its purpose.
It does not hold your hand.
Though it may caress it from time to time.
It can be catharsis.
A response to a question.
A hypothesis to be tested.
So we’re going to talk about things.
All so very relevant to our daily lives.
Things that make us uncomfortable.
Things that make us see faults and imperfections.
These are the things I cannot say, as a stare across a classroom of minds lost in screens, my every word recorded.
This is what will set you free.