I do not understand those who do not love art. Mathematics and sciences are exquisite in their own right; there is something magnificent in the intricacy of numbers and something oddly beautiful in the proving of theories, of correction, and of truth.
But art, art is beautiful in that it asks no questions, and yet holds every answer. Art is beautiful in that there is not simply the stark black and white of rationality, but a kaleidoscope of colours in between. Art is beautiful in that it lets us see inside ourselves, to beyond the bones and blood that science comprehends, the cell counts and pulse rates that mathematics understands- it sees our being, and it reflects us in itself.
Art is beautiful in that it is not just present in pictures and poems and films. Art is a showcase of the parts of us we cannot fathom into sentences. Art is in the tears that course down on our faces in those dark empty nights, art is in the smiles that glide effortlessly from our lips on those bright mornings. Art is in the gentle sighs that lace through the fading twilight, and the laughter that froths in the afternoon sunlight. Art is in every hair that raises along goose-bumped skin, it is in hasty goodbyes and lingering kisses. Art lives in the words of our favourite song, and in the patterns our footsteps make in the first fall of snow. Art hides in the scribbles of our cluttered words on crumpled yellowing pages; it is smeared across the canvases we paint in blood and tears, in lies and love. Art nestles in the crevices of our palms, in the curves of our eyelashes in the dusk. Art is there in every breath, every heartbeat.
I do not understand those who do not love art. For we are human, and in ourselves, we are art.