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“There’s no such thing as original content anymore!” Art Provocateurs tell me. We stand in the center of a bustling art gallery. People marvel over the twinkling ornaments hanging on each of the four walls. I roll my eyes.
“Art isn’t meant to be original,” I remind them. The AP’s laugh together, a thunderous clap that shakes the room, before walking out of the gallery. I hug myself to calm the rattling bones. Other people continue to observe and smile at the artwork.
Six years ago, I hung my first piece of art in a college studio. The room glowed with pride. My piece portrayed nothing of significant importance. Neither history, politics, gender, or beauty affected the painted glass bottles. I smiled at the portrait. The feeling outgrew the studio. It stretched three hundred miles in every direction. The painting glistened like a beauty mark in East Florida.
I touch the mole on my face and smile. The AP’s might know something about originality. They might even create such things. But not me. I’m content with being ignorant. I’m happy not knowing what the future holds.
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