Life as Art

As I descended the stairs onto a New York City subway platform, a fluttering in
the distance caught my eye; something resembling a bird or more precisely, a bird
preening its feathers.

It soon became apparent that the bird was actually a homeless man frantically at
work. A small stack of newspapers to one side, he tore each sheet into wide strips that
were then twisted and attached to a trash bag that covered his upper body and arms.
The paper crown atop his head bobbed erratically as he attached piece after piece,
meticulously creating a garment that would keep him warm on a bitterly cold November day.

I could not believe how extraordinary it was, a wearable sculpture resembling the
works of avant-garde fashion designers Rei Kawakubo of Comme des Garçons or
Martin Margiela of Maison Margiela, both of whose collections have been exhibited in
museums. I asked the gentleman if I could take his photo and gave him some money in
exchange. The image is blurry because he had trouble keeping still.

Galleries and museums are the places we turn to for art; white box receptacles
that exhibit works because they are defined as art. However, French philosopher Michel
Foucault presented an enlightening perspective on the meaning of art,

“What strikes me is the fact that in our society, art has become something which
is related only to objects and not to individuals, or to life. That art is something that is
specialized or which is done by experts who are artists. But couldn’t everyone's life become a work of art? Why should the lamp or the house be an art object but not our
life?”

I do not know anything about the man in the photo but I do know that he is a work of art. And while art institutions have their place, I agree with Foucault. Life can be a work of art. Even in the most painful bits.