By Marcelle La Cour

Art, real art, strives for beauty and consequence with a finesse, a diligence and attention to detail that appear to be beyond the sense of most modern men. And in the blunted eye of that ubiquitous beholder, we die a little––some of us who still can see, who yet can hold their brush to the canvas of their dreams and shape them, freeze them and infuse them with a life that lives only when another’s eye is capable of containing their worth.

Art, of importance, of relevance, is born of those whose capacity has not yet been compromised by the pressures of a humanity spiritually deprived and morally depraved. Such art can endure the centuries, but their creators are oftener of a substance more fragile and ephemeral. That same blunted eye of the beholder, detached and impassive, wandering noncommittally over a work exquisitely executed and passionately portrayed; that eye and that mind that sees little and thinks less, yet has the power to create a very tempest who’s winds of indifference shred the creative spirit into tatters of inconsequence.

Art matters and Art suffers when the spirit of the Artist suffers; from the subtle abuse of the domination, negation, and inconsequence, thrust upon it from those whom the Artist grants this power to.

© 2003, Marcelle La Cour. All Worldwide Rights Reserved

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