Art is a craft that lasts an age. As if we create hence opening a page to something that only fades by intention. It is literally the invention of history. As whatever is crafted is drafted to the quarters of a variety of arts. From romantic descriptives of the stars, or pictographs which show life so simple through signs and symbols. History rekindles by Art. Adding context to people who otherwise would never be recognised for their smarts, or then the set of their hearts. For when recording the past we cast a picture, from the etches of beautiful architecture to the great slumber of a sphinx. A form of holiness in a divine piece, as it treats those who honour it with innate peace. A moment of history broken off and preserved, if only we were present to have heard the constructions of the creative verb.
Tweaking the centrepiece of a way of art is like striking a period of history at the heart. We are forgetting and letting go something by which Human beings used to grow. Or rather why would we grow without having nothing to show? Except that all we already know. Art should be as mischievous as Bart, having the ability to embark on an ignorant journey to result in a form of expression that literally burns me from the inside out. To froth amazed words out the mouth or leak intense tears from the eyes. Like feeling a piece that credits your capacity to despise, a 2Pac song as strong as the black magic which allows us to hold on. A short poem, as concise and filling as a hit from a bong. Smoke emitting from a scenic festival, dressed in vibrance and scared of silence. A variety of artistic paths, not so shared or cared for, as the idea of art has been segregated from us.
As an admirer of its spread I noticed what I have been fed, a structure of higher and lower appreciation of art instead of a neutral lens. Such thinking tends to encroach on the freedom to reason what to gain. So a Museum of once great Britons is famed, whilst the concept of art from other cultures is shamed. Grime is a living train, with commuters drenched by the harsh rains of Society. Its path has taken a wilder energetic run, mostly entertained by Children of the Sun. That is why it is dangerous to attribute it as art, for this Society sees it morally dark as us. Whilst it parades slavers and mass rapers, colonialists and disgusting men – painted heroically with the detail of an artistic God. Evidentially we have been robbed of the same respect of art. That’s why we can laugh, for it will always be in our hands minds and hearts.