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Art is an ever moving, changing process that all artists collectively go through. The artwork the artist creates and the use of plastic elements are a means to an end for the process of art. Tacked onto this is the lasting impression of the artwork, an expression of the artist’s vision that serves as a catalyst of the skill once expressed and the biological immortality once followed through. For the sake of this span of writings, the primary focus will be on the interpretations of visual art.
In the previous section, the definition of artwork is described as containing many diverse components. As well as the elements that define good and bad art is dependent subjective for each spectator of the work. What one person may think is vulgar and primitive, another may see as innovative and genius. For this reason, it is difficult find overlap for a collective audience of different tastes and influences what good artwork means.
Sensuality is one way that overlap is seen, an elem
The Word 'Art'/What is Art? The word 'art' is simple, constructed of three letters and the pronunciation does not deviate from law of the English language. However, the definition of art itself deserves some argument. It is highly dependent on the person asked. The reason for tis is because art, unlike other fields, has no defined laws or moral grounds. Historically, since the birth of dada, an art movement that was spurred by Marcel Duchamp in the early twentieth century, all rules and laws that once defined art are now blown apart.
Because of the lack of universal laws in art, almost everyone today views themselves as their own expert on what art is. Going back to the example of Duchamp, who took a "readymade" urinal and tipped on its side in 1917 then called it art, created quite a stir. Even today, almost 100 years later, controversy remains about the urinal in question, the piece Duchamp titled Fountain still provokes arguments about what art is and what separates good art and bad art.
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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