Everything isn’t art to me. It might be art to somebody else. And I respect that.
I look at a pile of rocks and I see a pile of rocks.
I haven’t trained my eye to see beauty in stuff like that.
When I see laundry on the line and it is blowing in the wind,
when I see a moose in the clouds or the shape of a truck my son has drawn,
it makes my heart twinkle
and I consider that feeling, art.
If something can give me feelings other than what I was feeling, it’s art.
I feel, more so than I see, art
and that’s why everything I see, is not art.