Spent last night at a bar and this morning at coffee talking about the whole "what is art, who gets to decide what art is" thing with a couple of friends. I think this may be why I left art school and veered from a degree in Lit to the whole law thing. At some point I just felt like I had no right to an opinion, like I had no energy for an opinion, and I really didn't believe anyone who had one either. Honestly, at some point the whole discussion just curbed any enjoyment I had for art or literature or music or the whole beautiful mess.

Like this picture:

I walked out of a shop downtown a couple of years ago and saw the crazy reflection of a skyscraper's windows on that building and took the shot. Poor technique, no talent, lousy perspective and light. Yet I look at it and I remember the exact surge of joy I felt at that moment; my giant heartache for this city, the impending autumn charging the air. And I don't really care if that's art anymore. I'm just happy I don't have to feel bad for liking it. And I'm getting back to a point where I can somewhat enjoy converstations about these things again.