The Beautiful and the Beastly

I’m tired of the need to justify stuff. It’s not real art if you have to make it about something. If you have to make it about human rights, or cat rights, or deliver a point, or make it political. 

“Everything is political!” They shout. Bullshit. Art can be political, sure. If you say otherwise, you haven’t enjoyed music from the sixties; you haven’t seriously considered Guernica.  

But you know, those things were also beautiful. It wasn’t politics that made them art. It was aesthetics. It was the fact that these works would sing to your soul. They would make people who scoffed at the idea of God catch a glimpse of the divine.

I’m tired of seeing propaganda passed as art. Kids shit in a canvas and say that it’s their message, it’s art. No, it’s not. It’s shit on a canvas. What the fuck do you know about politics, anyway? How many souls have you held in your hands, how many tough decisions have you had to make, decisions that influenced the lives of others?

Get over yourself. Try to make something beautiful, for once. Try to touch a single person’s soul. Try to approach the feet of Mercury singing about Barcelona, to catch a mote of C. S. Lewis’ magical light as he drafted fables of child-knights and kingly lions.