Art Blog #134: Art Is In The Eye Of The Beholder - Essay
13. January, 2025 - Reading time 9 Min. - Peter Von Hauerland
#ArtEssay #ArtReading #WhatIsArt
In a quiet corner of the city, tucked between crumbling brick buildings and overgrown alleys, stood an unassuming gallery called Epiphany. Its windows were smudged, its sign faded, and its location seemed to repel foot traffic rather than invite it.
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The gallery was run by a reclusive artist named Lila Marceau. A woman of indeterminate age, her appearance was as enigmatic as her art. She wore flowing clothes spattered with paint, her long silver hair often tied in a loose braid. Her piercing eyes seemed to look through people, rather than at them. The cityās art circles whispered about herāsome called her a genius, others a charlatan. Her art defied convention. Instead of traditional paintings or sculptures, her exhibits were strange amalgamations of discarded objects: a clock missing its hands encased in amber resin; a shattered mirror refracting light in an ever-changing dance; a weathered violin whose strings were replaced by threads of silver and gold.
One chilly autumn evening, a young man named Ethan stumbled into Epiphany. Ethan had always considered himself a rationalist. He was a software engineer by trade, a solver of logical puzzles, and a skeptic of anything he deemed frivolous. Art, in his opinion, was an indulgence for the wealthy, a scam perpetuated by those who couldn't contribute to society in practical ways. He was only there because his best friend, Maya, had dragged him along.
āYouāll love it,ā Maya had promised, her eyes sparkling with excitement. āOr, at the very least, youāll hate it, but even then, youāll be talking about it for days.ā
Ethan had rolled his eyes but agreed to come, more to placate her than out of genuine curiosity.
Inside, the gallery felt almost otherworldly. The air was thick with the smell of turpentine and aged wood, mingling with something floral and unfamiliar. Shadows played tricks on the walls, cast by the flickering light of oil lamps that hung in clusters from the ceiling. Each piece of art seemed to demand attention, yet none of them adhered to any conventional definition of beauty.
āWhat⦠is this?ā Ethan muttered as he stood before a piece titled Timeās Embrace. It was a hulking mass of welded metal and shattered glass, with an old pocket watch embedded at its heart, its face cracked but its hands still ticking.
āWhat does it look like to you?ā a voice asked from behind him.
He turned to find Lila herself, her gaze fixed on him with unsettling intensity.
āIt looks like a pile of junk,ā Ethan said bluntly.
Maya gasped, nudging him sharply in the ribs. āEthan, thatās so rude!ā
But Lila only smiled, a knowing curve of her lips. āAnd yet, here you are, staring at it. Why?ā
Ethan hesitated. āI donāt know. Itās⦠odd. The watch, it feels out of place, but also⦠important.ā
āInteresting,ā Lila said softly. āYou see, art doesnāt exist in the piece itself. It exists in the interaction between the piece and the observer. What you see, what you feelāthat is the art.ā
Ethan frowned, unconvinced. āSo, if someone sees nothing, does that mean the art doesnāt exist?ā
Lilaās smile widened, as though he had just asked her favorite question. āPrecisely.ā
Over the following weeks, Ethan couldnāt shake the conversation from his mind. He found himself returning to Epiphany alone, drawn by a compulsion he didnāt fully understand. He began to linger before the pieces, studying their every detail, trying to decipher their secrets. One night, he stood before a piece titled Fractured Symphony, a piano with no keys, its strings replaced by jagged shards of glass. When he leaned closer, he realized the shards were etched with tiny wordsāpoems, in dozens of languages. He felt a strange, inexplicable pang in his chest.
Gradually, Ethanās skepticism began to erode. He started seeing beauty in the unconventional, finding meaning in the meaningless. His world, once rigid and orderly, began to blur at the edges.
One day, as he wandered through the gallery, he noticed a new piece. It was unlike anything else Lila had displayed. A simple canvas, painted entirely black, hung in the center of the room. Beneath it, a small plaque read: Void. Ethan stared at it for what felt like hours, feeling an overwhelming sense of unease. The blackness seemed to pull at him, a silent scream echoing in the emptiness.
When Lila appeared beside him, he asked, āWhat is this supposed to mean?ā
āWhat does it mean to you?ā she countered.
Ethanās jaw tightened. āIt feels like despair. Like being lost, with no way out.ā
Lila nodded, her expression somber. āThatās one way to see it. For others, itās peace. A blank slate. Freedom.ā
āHow can it be both?ā
āBecause art is in the eye of the beholder,ā she said. āAnd so is life.ā
Ethan left the gallery that evening with a heavy heart, the words echoing in his mind. Over the next few days, he found himself consumed by a desire to create somethingāanything. He gathered scraps of wood and metal, broken electronics, and fragments of glass, and began to piece them together in his tiny apartment. His hands moved without logic or reason, guided by something deep and instinctual.
When he finally stepped back to look at his creation, he felt a surge of emotion he couldnāt name. It was a chaotic, jumbled mess, but to him, it was alive. He decided to take it to Epiphany.
Lila greeted him with a rare smile as he dragged the piece into the gallery. āWhat have we here?ā
Ethan hesitated, suddenly self-conscious. āI donāt know if itās⦠anything. I just felt like I had to make it.ā
Lila studied the piece for a long moment, her eyes gleaming with something like pride. āItās everything,ā she said finally. āBecause itās yours.ā
The gallery was quiet that evening as Ethanās piece joined the collection. He watched as a young woman stopped before it, her face lighting up with recognition. āIt reminds me of my grandmotherās sewing machine,ā she whispered to her companion. āThe way the pieces fit together, itās like stitching memories.ā
Ethanās chest tightened. For the first time, he understood what Lila had meant. Art wasnāt about the creatorās intention, nor the materials used. It was about connection. It was about seeingātruly seeingāthrough someone elseās eyes.
As he left the gallery that night, he felt lighter, as though a weight he hadnāt realized he was carrying had been lifted. The city around him seemed different, more vibrant, more alive. And in the quiet corners of his mind, he began to wonder what other beauty he had been blind to, waiting to be discovered in the unlikeliest of places.
Epiphany continued to thrive in its obscurity, drawing seekers and skeptics alike. And Ethan, once a disbeliever, became one of its most ardent advocates, his own journey proof that art truly existed in the eye of the beholder.
Peter von Hauerland
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