A Critique on Critiquing

This is a little something I found huddled up in the corner (of one of my notebooks),

knee's-against-chest, weeping and wanting to be heard.

It was written about four years ago on the pratice of art critique,

which I find to be vile, senseless, and insignificant.

Before you begin, let me just state for the record that when I say "Art" I am refering to all mediums of creative expression,
from visual arts like painting and sculpture to
literary arts such as fiction, poetry etc. music, dance, improvisation and all other forms.

Lock the Critics in a Tiny Cage and Set it on Fire

"Our pale reasoning hides the infinite from us."
- Jim Morrison

Art cannot be critiqued.
We are not in a position to consciouslly apply worth to byproducts of the infinite mascrocosm of chaos from which all art comes.
To quote almost word for word a spiney quagmire that appeared several times in

Understanding Aesthetics.

"The Mona Lisa by Leonardo Da Vinci is a much better painting than No. 5 by Jackson Pollack. The quality and conveyance is direct and showcases a seasoned artist in starck contrast to what many believe to be an experimental amateur."

This postulate is presented to incite thought about what achieves a higher quality or artisitic worth of the object of discussion.
Thinking back on it now, I can see that the dictum is designed to clearly divide individuals like myself from folks who feel there is good art, bad art, professional and amateur art.

To say that the Mona Lisa is a better painting than No. 5 ,
is like saying clam chowder is a better food than a pear.
They are both unique and special in their own ways. One is a soup prepared with cream and seafood, the other a sweet and juicy piece of fruit.

How can one be better than the other?

I'm sure of it, sometimes you are in the mood for a creamy soup other times a grainy fruit.

They do not compete, they are just foods.

Art is just art.

It nevertheless exists regardless if or not its labeled by its creators or an audience attempting to comparmentalize it or understand the intricate workings of its interior anatomy.

Is it not clear now that it’s us human-beings that do the competing?

It’s us human-beings that fail to understand art or dislike it because we cannot

easily identify or connect with its first phase.

Sometimes you order clam chowder and get Manhattan expecting New England,

Or expect to identify with a gallery of work or a collection of poetry but you don’t.

Sometimes your pear is old or mealy or for some reason you just don’t want it.

Art is about perception, and all people perceive all things differently.

There is no good, great, bad, or terrible art.

Saying anything about the quality is missing the point.

Art is felt! There is nothing logical or analytical about it.

You must apply art to yourself. It is purposeless alone, it's subsists to vitally exist.

It is your responsibility to access it, engage it, dismiss or betray it,
for it knows no human prejudice.

You must understand that you will not be able to identify, decipher,
and understand the true meaning of all art.

Something’s will sing to you immediately, other pieces slowly, sometimes you will enjoy segments or parts of one whole, other times you will be presented with something obscure or protected, something that forces you to think and dig your nails tirelessly.
Something that will free you, enslave you, drag you through the darkest trenches of hell
or the highest and brightest fields of Elysium.

This is canon!

We are not meant to understand all art, Only art that we can access;

Art that we can apply to ourselves and take into our very soul the true essence of what we feel we've discovered.

Although logical thought, reasoning and the like will be beckoned at times... even required to access certain forms of art, the context is still yours to decide.

Do not allow an artist to tell you what their finished product is or represents.

This is their perception of the work, not yours.

Most important of all, you must remember that
art involves thought but it does not come from thought.

Art is birthed in a sporadic ocean of infinite possibilities.
A void where things uncertain are immediately evident, real, breathing and pulsating
and the unconceivable becomes feasible.
Feasible and contingent with nascent actuality.

Ergo the rivers flow with galaxies of stars, the sky fills with fire, up is down and down is up and all things are content and at peace with being unreal and inanimate.

From the mental stillness, a child with the face of eternality is born.
Lock the critics in cages that they authored and douse them generously with gasoline.