“All art is quite useless” – Oscar Wilde said. It is in fact useless when considering the physical aspect, it brings none. Yet it stirs our illusions. Our fiery passion for illusion is one that is innate, and that is why as a millennially old race we have always loved to dream and to imagine. Art brings these illusions to life.
Once we get hold of an illusion at a point in time, we allow ourselves to distantly roam across the raging waves while we hold on to the desire our hearts cling so desperately onto. As treasurable as they are – these moments – they are also hasty. The creation of art is a necessity for the well-being of one’s own soul. Art presents itself to us through myriads of manners and methods, and one holds a duty towards oneself to grasp these methods and turn them into the instruments of our hearts.
Empiricism is defined as the theory that all knowledge is derived from sense-experience. While that may not be wholly agreeable, there is a lot of truth behind it. It is not unusual to notice the patterns that 18th century philosophers onwards have had in culminating this emotion-filled and heart-rather-than-mind led theory. Our passions, desires, aspirations, dreams and inner illusions are the set of sensations that ignite our senses; art is merely the matching stick.
I have long been encouraging artistry to whoever appears to see more to life than racing oneself to the dirt. In any form that may be, artistry is essential to the understanding of one’s innermost desires.
With time, one will come to realize that our love for illusions (dreams) will make us capable of viewing the real-world in a similar manner. If our world is an illusion, then our senses will be more likely to erupt and operate more freely and vividly. Dreams then become an illusion within an illusion, shining as fluorescently as they could; making life a tad more worth living.
