Imagine for some reason, people all live in bunkers underground.
With no contact with the surface of the Earth.
After generations, people forget about things like the sky, the sun, the moon, the ocean, trees, birds, etc.
But the echoes of these things remain inside us.
Some people (“artists”) talk about them, write poems about them, paint them.
Children do it without being taught.
But people laugh at them. For believing in things that “don’t exist”.
Soon, the bad guys realise something.
The “artists” are reminding people of things that are REAL.
Rapidly their create their own art, to flood out the true art and the true artists.
Soon the word “art” is associated with meaninglessness.
Paintings that are scribbles, songs that are gibberish, poems that are mechanical.
The true artists get ignored.
But they know.
What is Art?
A reminder of that which is Real, but has been hidden from us.
