I was planning to write a completely different blog post this week, but my partner is saying some pretty interesting things, and now I’m writing this blog post, capisce?
Let me back up. My partner is making a movie. And I’m very proud of him! That is very cool! But this is not your average movie. It’s more like—in his words—an elongated comedy sketch. He asked me what I thought of a song he’d written for it, and after I gave him my opinion, we somehow wound up in a discussion about how we define art and why it matters.
He Says
“Art is the product of a sentient being whose intent is to make art,” was the definition my partner first gave me when I prompted him. When I pointed out that a word shouldn’t have the very same word in its definition, he changed it to, “The concept of art is the intent to provide a product that will be viewed by others.
“Etsy shops make art. YouTubers make art. Those who create products that other people see or use—those people are artists.” (For the record, I would never disagree with that!)
He drew the line at non-sentient beings creating art (when not guided by a human, that is), but “non-human animals are perfectly capable of creating art if they (a) are participating in the creation process, and (b) are doing actions that would imply they know they are creating art.”
Bottom line: anything can be art.
She Says Me Says? I Say
My definition of art is, basically, a thing created that has meaning.
As you can imagine, that makes labeling things as art or not art highly subjective. Who decides what has meaning—the artist or the audience? (Yes and/or yes, according to me.)
We used the example of the elephant who painted a self-portrait. We both think this is art, but for different reasons. He says it’s art because the elephant intended to create the image. I say it’s art because a self portrait is inherently self-reflective—it has meaning.
Why Does This Matter?
Why have I let you in on this discussion?
Well, my partner’s definition of art changes how he creates art. He is also much more liberal with the use of the word. He calls everything he makes art, and I think that’s beautiful.
In contrast, I will almost never call what I write art. I understand that my writing is art, and I would not hesitate to call what others write art, but I reserve the word for my own work for the loftier, more high-minded projects. It’s a way of signaling to myself what is important to me, though it can sometimes make working on a project a little more intimidating.
Another consequence: since art must have meaning in my mind, I purposefully do not create art that does not have, on some level, meaning. (At least, not since I’ve learned how to intentionally weave themes into my stories.)
My partner, on the other hand, will make art without planning out ahead of time what he’s going to say with the piece.
Though you may believe one of us or the other with your whole heart, neither of us is strictly wrong. These are just different mindsets. And, as a certain podcast will tell you, mindset is everything. It affects not only what we make, but our entire approach to making it, every step of the way.
How to Define Art for Yourself
This requires A Big Think™, but it’s worth it to check in with yourself in this way. Turn to a fresh page in your journal, grab a fresh sheet of paper, or open your favorite recording app or website and ask yourself the following questions. Answer them honestly—no one will ever see or hear this but you.
- What is my gut-reaction definition of art?
- Would I automatically call anything someone made art?
- What criteria must be met in order to consider something art?
- What disqualifies something from being called art?
- Is what I’m currently writing something that I’d call art? Why or why not?
- How does that make me feel?
- Does calling my writing art intimidate me, or is it natural?
- Now that I’ve reflected, what is my thought-out definition of art?
By the end of it, you’ll not only know yourself a little better, but you might just understand what you write and why you write it a little bit better, too.
