An Art Gallery Could Never Be as Unique as You

 “I am art”. This little phrase says so much without saying anything at all. I am wonders and made with imperfection. I have paint strokes and cracks and a little animated life. I get perceived, and I get perceived differently- each time someone walks by. Sometimes I am an absurdity and wasted oil paint, sometimes I am just a photograph for their Instagram page, sometimes or most of the time I am something just hung on the creaks of the wall, being unnoticed by all, and if someone notices me, it is for just a minute or so.

I am art. And I was made by an artist, who is blamed more than the art. “it’s nose a little crooked” “How disfigured its body is” and then the perceivers make a pity groan and empathize with the art and mouth the artist. I wonder how shallow the perceivers can be. I wonder what is it that they lack? I sometimes pity them actually. How sad and unimaginative they are.

I am art. I am made of the colors, feelings, and tears of my beloved artist. It ignites me with excitement to realize that I am here, alive, in this world, breathing and seeing the art prettier than me, more important than me, and more deceiving than me. It joys me up even more to look at nature- art by the god, whom I am made up of. The thunder lighting, the stars, the land thirsty for its water to meet, the waves of the ocean and the singing of the tree- and then I love myself again.

I am art. Sitting in the bleak of this art museum for everyone to see, for everyone to talk to me but now here I feel exposed and feel tallest in the room, everyone’s eyes all over me. Why so now? When whole my life, I spent under a tree, hiding the cracks, in the shadows. How so suddenly I am someone who’s admired?

Then I realized- I am art, now in art gallery. Many people would visit me, but only a few would understand me.