Everything is Art

A painter gracefully glides her brush across a canvas, spreading colours that slowly assemble a photograph of her mind. Paints are carefully mixed to be just the right shade before being spread into a gradient. A thin brush flits about the painting to detail the nuances of the scene. Each stroke has purpose in giving life to a sight that may not even exist. Each decision affects the painting itself, and so the painter must weigh it all out before committing to a decision.

A sculptor, meanwhile, moulds his clay by pinching and caressing it. He smooths out rough edges and roughens smooth surfaces. His fingers work together with the finer details while his palms define the larger areas. He introduces a few tools to the process, letting them become part of his hand while making incisions and wrinkles. The shape is made and later perfected in its minute crevasses. There’s a skill and expression to his project, and so it announces his dedication.

On the other side of the planet, a teacher speaks to a group of young minds. She gestures to diagrams and makes witty comments between sentences. Her mouth’s contents: lips, tongue, teeth, and all, work in conjunction as wisdom pours through her lecture. She works through the subject, sewing words and definitions into a ribbon that she draws from her mouth. Her gestures are quick to get students’ attention, yet smooth to keep them comfortable. Her comments are frequent to make students smile, yet relevant to keep them focused. As her lecture goes on, definitions leap from her mouth onto the students’ notebooks. She reiterates a few things which some students seem to misunderstand, and glazes over the details that they already know from the previous unit. The lesson must be displayed, and so her students are the canvas.

Elsewhere, a huntsman lies in wait for his game to come by. He’s playing for sport, but plans to have his capture for dinner after weighing it in. The huntsman’s breath is silent and soft, undetectable even by his own lungs. There’s a practice in keeping himself alert for so long, holding his rifle at the ready while surveying the landscape. His eyes trace over leaves and pierce between trees. His ears tune in to the sounds around him, capturing the crunch of leaves nearby as his game approaches. His eyes dart to the right, and there he sees the game approaching. With his eyes, the huntsman weighs in his game. It’s larger than most others, but not by much. He sees more muscle than fat on the animal; enough muscle to feed his family for more than one dinner. As his game moves, so too do the huntsman’s eyes. They capture the game in his head, and now the huntsman commits to his craft. His eyes find the best place to shoot. His rifle smoothly lines up with it, and the huntsman squeezes the trigger. His game falls with grace, if only for a moment before thumping onto the ground.

The painter heads home from her studio, passing traffic lights designed by engineers. The sculptor works in his home, built by laborers and architects. The teacher looks out to a city shaped by countless generations of businessmen, politicians, and aggregate crowds of ordinary people. The huntsman settles down to eat with his family, who are all but one part of the aggregate crowds of artists.