What is art

"What is art?"He asked, looking at "The Starry Night" where Vincent van Gogh threw colours of frustration. An unknown world. They say, "Vincent was a genius, unappreciated till death." Price of death sold in millions. "Does money determine the essence of art? What is the point of receiving value after death?" He asked.

Black and white can also become colourful just as an artist can exhibit his true craft of starving, becoming "The Hungry Artist". "A performance of being hungry, is it art? Was Kafka an artist as well?" He asked.

There was only sound. Seemingly a piece of music was born out of it. Who was it? Beethoven? Perhaps it was a river of conscience, still awake on the polluted land. There was no barrage to hold it. It crashed everything on its way, flooding the container that was meant to hold drizzle of forgetfulness. "Is forgetfulness the death of past?" He asked.

In this market, flesh of humans has price. The dark cleavage, the enticing bosom, lithe figure attracted eyeballs, defining with an adjective "Attractive" woman. She became the symbol of sex. Appearance was sold with a price higher than beef or pork. "Was Marilyn Monroe art or was it her life?" He asked.

History is being resurrected again and again. Hitler, Stalin, Alexander, Pol Pot, Mussolini have made their appearances repeatedly on flims, stories, plays and numerous depictions. Reiteration of fractured history. Same stories are told again and again. Faces are switched with faces of new actors. Gruesome history is no long gruesome. It has become a farce, renewed for profit. A moving image on broken canvas. "Is history art as well?" He asked.



"What is art?" He asked, trying to hold sand with his hand, trying to seek answers in the world that floats in an ocean of questions. So many questions, no one is left to address. And he asked, "What is art?" There was no answer.