I had a weird thought the other day. It was about art and it came out of nowhere. Specifically, I wondered if I cared about it at all. To be perfectly candid, I wondered if it really even exists. In the past, I’ve had similar thoughts, usually they’re about love, God or the sub-conscious (though I know the latter, the sub-conscious, probably put me off it’s own trail, just to prove a point). I’ve thought about it quite a bit since then, both the “do I care about” question and the “does it even exist” question.

I’m tempted here to dive down that old philosophic rabbit hole--“Define your terms,” bellowed my old professor. But I am going to resist that temptation. No definition of art forthcoming. I’m resisting too a quick Google search to pull together some good beefy quotes to muscle up this anemic start to my little essay. Instead, I will simply scratch out a few thoughts of my own, original and, I’m certain, tedious as a result.

I’ve never practiced art, though I’ve been told on a few occasions I’ve gotten close, probably in spite of myself. So, I can’t contribute first-hand to the ages-old conversation about the discipline, if discipline is the right word. So, that makes me think I must not care about it. The things I care about, are the things I seek out. Things like the embrace of my wife. Or getting up early to watch the sun rise over the bay while I walk with Maggie, my canine companion. I seek out good fresh food. And I seek out the occasional companionship of friends. But I don’t seek out art. If I cared about it wouldn’t I make an effort? It seems a rhetorical question when put that way.

There is too, the pretension associated with the word art--at least in my mind. If its so important, why even talk about it? Simply do it. Practice it or enjoy it, but don’t make a fuss. It’s like the bumper sticker that says, Honk if you love Jesus. Why would you reduce something like that to something so banal, assuming you indeed loved Jesus? So the elevation of a thing like art, whatever it is, to a conversation--to a little random essay--is for me, off-putting. But that is probably just me. I’ve been to galleries and gallery openings (I should state here, DISCLAIMER: I once owned my own gallery.) and think I’m a minority on this, this business of elevation. People like the art scene, as they say. Some openings were fun and enjoyable. Those were the ones not about the art but about the people and the buzz and the party. The openings about the art, where the art is discussed and viewed and killed, hung up there trophied, those are the ones that make me head back to the street in search of a stiff drink. That is the sort of night giving rise to the two opening questions: do I care and does it even exist?

So, getting back on track here. A person can care for a thing that does not exist, yes? Religion has taught us that. So, accordingly, one can, or cannot, care about art. Whether it is a true thing (some even use a big t regarding this subject and that is the pretension I mean) doesn’t matter. For me, I don’t care about it. But I can’t leave it there, hanging out all naked like that.

Have you ever experienced a thing and only then knew you cared truly about it? I don’t mean the Hallmark card tripe about taking something, a person, probably, for granted, or the set-them-free-because-of-your-love sort of thing. No, I mean something big. Something like Beethoven losing his hearing big. That is the sort of thing I’m referring to. The thing you cannot anticipate that just comes on you like a crush and you know immediately that something big has been experienced. Imagine one day you wake up and you’re covered in feathers and have a beak. That’s a big thing. You can’t anticipate it. You can’t talk about it, or hang it on a wall or write about it. It just happens.

This sounds odd, I know, but this is how I think about important things: I can’t. I can’t think about them, that is to say. (I want here to say it’s something like a zen koan, but just inserting that thought is damaging to what I’m trying to say. So pretend I didn’t mention it, even if it was parenthetical.) Getting back to waking up beaked and feathered, still a bipod and wondering where your car keys are. It’s transformative, this notion. Makes you see things differently. That’s what I mean. Of course, this is not a unique idea, this waking up as something other than yourself. It’s a metaphorical artifact. We are all a bit Gregor Samsa before coffee in the morning. If that’s art, then I guess I have something I can work with.

A thing that defies terminology is said to be ineffable. That’s what I am striving for here and obviously the irony is falling out of the sky. I think of this subject as something that is a waste of time to even try and discuss. Instead, it would be better to tune yourself up, like a stringed instrument, so you can be ready to have the experience. If you’re an athlete you’re going to train. And if you’re a spectator, you’re going to get a ticket and the best seat you can afford. The event, well, who knows how it will turn out. But you’re ready for it, regardless. You’re ready to mix it up and tuned to experience it. (I at first wrote, tuned to enjoy it--but that is wrong. It is an experience and not always a thing enjoyed in the obvious way.)

I told you it was a weird idea.

A nice tidy summary of this notion is antithetical to the whole thing. So I’ll just leave it at that.