My husband is an artist. I don’t mean that he paints, writes music, or writes– though he does all those things.
I mean, he speaks art. And when in the presence of art that speaks back, he listens.
He breathes the beauty of creation through his pores. It doesn’t matter if there’s a red line on the ground, ordering him to back away. He stands close enough to hear everything.
No matter who created it or who owns it, rules are meaningless in the face of his conversation.
All rules are his. All art is his.
He is an artist.
Dave behaves at galleries, I promise, but probably because we favor galleries that let you get up close and personal with the artwork.
Are you an artist?