You. Are. Art

I made a discovery, it hovers over me, a sphere floating from my crown up and around my atmosphere, that, in a moment may have changed how my eyes tolerate and ameliorate their various stimuli. 

Every person is a work of art.

This may sound cliché, I’m sure I’ve heard it before, but today I internalized the definition, it’s now in my head, solidified, a new color gel film over the spotlights from my irises and pupils.

Every person is a work of art.

 

The shape of their body, the color of their countenance, hair up, down, going, gone, 

gravitational pull from their hot bod or non-laudable geometry.

Art is separated into the dynamic and static: the static presents its entire self, naked and nervous, after which it allows the viewer to receive the artistic segments and pieces. 

Paintings, architecture, a coliseum of grandeur taking hours to walk throughout.

These are static. You see the sum, then encounter the parts.

The dynamic, presented in pieces, in time, line by line, seconds rhyme or contradict past motif, 

all assemble and resemble the final craft. Music, dance, poetry, moment by moment we receive notes, steps, words; with each interval we gain a new puzzle piece to place, until we construct the ultimate form.

What could be more dynamic of an art than people? 

Is there anyone EVER who could say they knew everything about another person? 

Even if we wanted, could we ever show someone everything at once, and then allow him or her to scrutinize the pieces? Even if you knew EVERYTHING about someone… Wait a day. 

Do you still know it all?

 We are never opaque. We are never solid.

Every moment you are, 
you. are. art.

...and not a painting, not a structure, but

 you are choreography, you are music,

you are poetry verses spoken by your actions, clothes, voice, and experience.

You are a never ending song,

your existence is a symphony in as many movements as you can dance.

The world is not a museum, red velvet rope protecting you from onlookers,

It is a concert hall, curtains never closed,

it is a dance club, beats bumping bodies and ripping clothes

it is teens spitting and speaking on top of a parking garage, expression flying from roof to roof. 

You

Are

ART

This is all speculation, I have no proof. I do, however, believe that this is truth.

And, as such, if I’m right, I look forward to free concerts every moment of every day and every night.