What is art? A deeply debated question over the span of time. Is that blue box on the wall art? It depends what it took for it to get there. Is that indistinguishable mess of yarn and paint and dirt art? It depends what it took for it to get there. Art is not something that lives on a wall, it is something that lives inside everybody. Not a product, but an intention, an action, an interaction, a belief and a desire. A painting means nothing without an audience to give it life. Life. This is where art lies. In these feelings that tie us together, that we experience day to day, that we try to share, try to communicate. This insistent humanity that bubbles at a low or high burn within all of us. Being. Being so angry, so frustrated that all you want to do on your walk home is destroy a mailbox or rip a tree out of the ground. This is art. Being so ecstatically joyful that you just want to fall apart, literally, piece by pulsating piece, into a puddle of soul. The desire to be consumed by this happiness. This is art. There are people who exist in this, whose very lives are art. There are also people who fear this, the reality of art. Those who worship control and order. To them, inconcrete dreams do not exist. That which does not perpetuate physical gain is worthless. These people fear the limitless imagination, for they fear what it makes us capable of. What lives apparitional, goading us on in pursuit for expression, by any means. This has lived, does live inside all of us – intensely, if we allow it. This is what we stifle in order to fit in to our pre-cast, supposedly pre-destined molds. Don’t embarrass yourself. This is what we are told as children when we cry in public, or sing, or lift our skirts over our heads. We are inappropriate. Our authoritative powers kept us in check by means of stress – once, a survival mechanism, now a tool. You’re going to fuck it up. Don’t stick out too much, just enough for a decent scholarship when you get to college. Be quiet unless you need to speak. What is necessary? They want us to be anonymous because it is easier. Everything is easier. Well, I refuse. I believe it is time to get personal. Get so fucking personal that it can no longer be ignored that we are legitimate individuals being affected by a ruling class of individuals that seek to remove our humanity – in their eyes and in ourselves. Fear culture, as in you’ll never succeed anyway, so why try? Just try to be happy. I don’t seek to be happy, I seek to be human. You cannot replace this with iphones and swedish coffee tables. I am discontent. I am discontent with what it takes simply to survive. A sacrifice. I am not one of the lambs, I am a lion. Are you? Let me hear you roar. Be discontent. Be devastated. Be infuriated. Be confused. Be vulnerable. Scream until your esophagus is bleeding so that somebody, anybody will hear you, will hear that you exist, will hear that you feel too – you feel TOO – YOU. This is art. This is what they fear from a post-post-modern era, when apathy dies and we resist commercial endeavor again. Survival. This is art. Maintaining a genuine sense of expression, never catering or pandering to a shallow audience. This is art. Believing that you are worth something, that you do not struggle alone. This is art. So bare your soul. Scream at strangers. Paint on sidewalks. Write on store windows. Piss in the motherfucking street. Be depressed. Be ecstatic. Be pissed off. Be fulfilled. Be disappointed. Be exactly what your gut grows queezy for you to be, when it drops and you know you’re holding something back. That is not meant to fester inside of you, it is meant to interact with the world. So take a shit on expectation and speak your mind. Or else, what the fuck are you doing here?