To my mind, the uniqueness of humanity is evidenced in our propensity for creation, and the manners in which this creation manifests itself. Most of what we do is merely for the sake of survival and self indulgence, essentially just like any other life form we’re aware of. We come into being as a definition of complex chemical and physical processes, find our physical/chemical niche within our environment, forcibly acquire resources to maintain our being long enough to procreate, repeat. It’s hardly different than the life cycle of, say, a solar system in either complexity or relevance. What, then, do we do that’s notably different?

The first answer is that we think and learn about our environment, but we cannot say with absolute certainty that we are the only aspects of the environment that do this thing. Rather, what we look to is the obvious manifestation of this behavior within our universe, namely creation.

It’s entirely possible that, say, a whale, or a crow, or even a tree, has some awareness of its environment, even the ability to contemplate and record that environment, to plot and ponder it. What they do not do is restructure it on any complex level. They interact, certainly, eating, fighting, sleeping, digging, but they don’t intentionally redefine for the sake of redefining. They don’t turn iron into steel, they don’t turn wood into boards, they don’t turn berries into dyes and paints. They don’t combine the three to make works of art. Even the tool users merely interact. The tool is useful only as a tool for the time being. The tool never becomes an independent part of their reality.

Humans, on the other hand, create all the time. We are fascinated with symbols of our presence, constantly finding new ways to permanently bend the environment into new and unique forms to symbolize our selves and thoughts. We describe worlds that have never existed in our literature, literally using art to ‘add on’ to our reality. We paint fantastic landscapes, exploring the possibilities not allowed us by the natural world. Indeed, we are forever adding to nature, or, as I like to whimsically (and arrogantly) posit, we pick up where natural creation left off, continuing to add on to the universe.

This is why, to me, aesthetics are of such importance. We are forever recreating the world, making it more a testament of our presence. It is the one thing we do of any import, the one instance where we rise above the rest of reality. Reality finished its creation, by the looks of things, eons ago. We’re the only thing left still working on creating truly new things.

To me, art is the ultimate expression of being. It is the joy of being alive, of being part of reality. To paint or write or score or script or sculpt or dance or design or build, this is both the ultimate conquest and the ultimate tribute. It is our prayer of thanks and our show of arms, our exultation of triumph at the gift of being human.

How arrogant, then, this idea? In all the time I’ve held it, it never occurred to me what a statement of profound egocentrism this must be. Never once did I consider the possibility that such creation might be miasma to the natural world at large, a great pollution of an until then stable and consistent reality.

These are not, of course, the words or ideas expressed by my counterpart in this dialogue, but the idea came to the fore when discussion the idea of destroying art. I have heard stated many times recently, especially from the lips of poets, the belief that true artists destroy their finest works; that much of the greatest art must inevitably be destroyed, and I brought this up in relationship to the mandalas painted in sand by buddhist monks, designed to be intentionally transient. My friend instantly reacted with comprehension and sympathy to the idea, which took me by surprise since I usually bring up the notion to add a point of confusing counterbalance to such discussions, as the idea was always entirely unfathomable to me.

Reacting to my surprise she attempted to explain, and in the explanation gifted me with two attitudes towards art that had been, until now, had eluded my thought process. The first was the notion of ‘secret art’, as she called it.

The idea behind secret art, as I understand it, centers upon the notion of what I would describe as emotional greed. This is the concept that, for some, an artistic piece, either created or merely witnessed, can elicit an emotional response that the person in question has no desire to share. They instead attempt to covet the work, refusing to allow others to experience or enjoy, purposefully never mentioning or recommend it to friends or contemporaries and, in the case of the creator, often destroying it. I never would have developed this notion on my own for when it comes to things created, I have the desire to both share and experience the thrill of others enjoying. There are things I create which I choose not to share with others, but usually this is due to the fact that I either don’t think other peopl would enjoy these creations or that I don’t think they would understand my emotional relationship, making attempts to pass on the emotional experience seem pointless. But until that conversation, I had never really contemplated the idea of coveting art for the sake of emotional relationship, almost literally a jealousy over art.

The second idea, however, was the one that really stuck, even though it got fairly little play in conversation. It was especially fascinating to me because of the way in which my own thoughts and beliefs had, for years, danced around this very subject but never once managed to catch sight of this fairly obvious argument, this most obvious of angles to contemplate the act of creation from.

The idea was that the act of creation was, in fact, exceptional arrogance. It is my nature to presume, without much thought, that the act of creation, invention, art must be good, but there is, in fact no reason to believe this outside of an entirely self serving state. In fact, it’s as reasonable to suppose that our little acts of creation actually pollute reality, forcing absurd little shouldn’t bes into the fabric. Taken from this light, the act of creation becomes an affront to nature, and those who wish to avoid such open displays of callousness, but who still feel the overpowering need to create, may well destroy said creations shortly after enjoyment for the sake of leaving the universe comparatively unmarred by the act itself.

This idea stunned me. I’ve never in my life supposed that the act of creation was anything short of magnificent, miraculous. To suppose that it might be viewed by some, even among those who enjoyed creating it, as nothing more than the philosophical equivalent of public defecation surprised me. It was as if many artists considered their passion a shameful taboo, something to be indulged in and then swept under the carpet.

Obviously, I’ve taken some liberties in the final translation of the notion, but what’s important is this new perspective on peoples’ relationship to art. Certainly it’s not one that I agree with. For the time being art, to me, is still the hallmark of human achievement, but at least now it’s something I’m thinking about, instead of blindly assuming.