Are you feeling something yet?

A 3.6 by 4.4 m piece of canvas covered in oils made out of particles of pigment suspended in linseed oil encased in a wooden frame, hand sculpted with swirling patterns. There's no way only two hands worked on this masterpiece, but the others were doomed to be forgotten. This is art.

A marble statue gilded by the sun, such perfect proportions, such soft silks covering such tender skin, made only with a chisel and axe. The sadness on her face remains forever frozen. This is art.

Some 50 people and their pieces of wood and string, dressed in black and white, sitting. Vibrations filling the room. A gentleman in a suit waving his hands frantically, his face contorted, changing faster than the speed of sound. Happy, sad, concentrated, frowning, calm. This is art.

A gothic church, standing tall and proud with its countless black details of mortar and cement, dozens of sharp towers adorned with metal crosses shining in the morning sun. The warm rays penetrate the building through the stained glass like arrows breaking into shards of red, blue, yellow, green, orange painting the wooden benches and marble columns inside. This is art.

Words on a paper, written with such caution, pondered for days and weeks and months, finally eternalized in black ink. Metaphors, oxymorons, rhyme and rhythm, plans unfolding, stories evolving, plots twisting, happy and sad endings, or no endings at all. This is art.

Scenes cascading into a river of motion, dialogue, action, drama, fear. Stills of nature, urban life, outer space and deep seas. Men and women tangled in a game of pretend, no longer sure of their reality, of their identity. They live and die, love and hate, behind the camera, inside our TVs. This is art.

Scribbles on the sides of dilapidated facades, trains, lamp posts, fences, public toilets, subway stations, like dog urine on trees marking their territory. The paint dripped, making the lines sloppy. Is this art?

A urinal on its side in a glass display. A monocoloured canvas or a canvas with a single line on it. A banana on a pedestal. A piece of red fabric with seven cuts in it. An empty wall. Is this art?

Did it make you feel happy? Did it make you feel sad? Satisfied? Amazed? Astonished? Appreciative? Angry? Disgusted? Annoyed? Appalled? Horrified? Intimidated?

Did it make you feel anything? A twitch of the heart? A tremble of the eyelids? Heavy, jagged breathing? Irises dilating?

Anything at all?

Then it's art.

Contemplatio Post Scriptum

Only with emotion, the soup will turn sour. The missing ingredient is intent. Transmitting an idea, emotion, feeling, experience. Money. Fame. Escapism. Perhaps only then it truly is art.

Cover

Marcel Duchamp, Fountain, 1917