This quote scares me. I don’t want to be one of those people who have forgotten how to live. Art can enhance our lives and make them more beautiful. I find much meaning in both a story and painting and I always judge a purse by how many books I can cram into it.
But we can also become buried. We can use art as an escape from life and choose not to engage it. And we forget to stop living. Especially easy to do when we love stories and painting and it’s our job. Especially when the present isn’t pleasant.
So where’s the line between loving art passionately and loving it so much we forget about our present? I’m not sure. I’m still trying to figure it out.
How do you deal with this line between the two?