My parents tap into a mysterious inner reservoir as soon as they land on a foreign tarmac to become shopaholics. You won’t find these things back home, they say. I agree, just a little differently. I have never been fond of scouring streets one after another to satisfy my shopping demons. I am not fond of trying to locate and fall uncontrollably for an exotic item, a skinny jean (available back home), those 5 Euro tee-shirts on sale and souvenir refrigerator magnets. I am a sucker for museums, trying to find meaning for myself and the life of things around me in abstract art. Food is also of paramount importance. After all, my parents are right; there’s nothing like what you eat here that you will eat back home, so no foreign experience is complete without my palate divulging in alien cuisines. On a tight budget, it does not make any sense to stroll into a Michelin star restaurant and order a 50 Euros upward fancy lunch or dinner: it suffices to pick out the odd Vapianos, random street gelatos that also sell wood-oven pizzas with halal meat, and the infamous Turkish doner kebabs stalls. Berlin is not short of options when it comes to cuisines.
If an ‘artist’ creates a spectacle that goes unacknowledged, then is his ‘creation’ art? This begs another question: what do we mean by ‘art’?
The definition cannot be specific. The perception of expressions and creations are subjective, and so what we choose to label something as ‘art’ has an impulsive, subjective perception embodied as the central part of it’s judgement.
So lets define ‘art’ as vaguely as we can.
Art, in my opinion, is simply the expression of one’s thoughts in anyway possible. Be it words, photographs, videos, letters, stories, drawings, paintings, sport, obsession etc; all of these have an ‘artistic’ dimensions to them.
But doesn’t this make literally everything ‘art’?