Stop thinking about art works as objects, and start thinking about them as triggers for experiences. (Roy Ascott’s phrase.) That solves a lot of problems: we don’t have to argue whether photographs are art, or whether performances are art, or whether Carl Andre’s bricks or Andrew Serranos’s piss or Little Richard’s ‘Long Tall Sally’ are art, because we say, ‘Art is something that happens, a process, not a quality, and all sorts of things can make it happen.’ … [W]hat makes a work of art ‘good’ for you is not something that is already ‘inside’ it, but something that happens inside you — so the value of the work lies in the degree to which it can help you have the kind of experience that you call art.
Somewhere along the line, you changed. You stopped being you. You let people stick a finger in your face and tell you you’re no good. And when things got hard, you started looking for something to blame, like a big shadow. Let me tell you something you already know. The world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows. It’s a very mean and nasty place and I don’t care how tough you are it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain’t about how hard ya hit. It’s about how hard you can get it and keep moving forward. How much you can take and keep moving forward. That’s how winning is done! Now if you know what you’re worth then go out and get what you’re worth. But ya gotta be willing to take the hits, and not pointing fingers saying you ain’t where you wanna be because of him, or her, or anybody! Cowards do that and that ain’t you! You’re better than that!
Texts are secrets. They’re little mementos of inclusion and excitement you can read over and over. They’re letters, journal entries, notes passed in class. Because we like to hold onto words that mean something to us. We like re-read and remember and re-live that moment when he said, “I miss you,” or even just “Merry Christmas” because you know they mean the same thing…And when I text my best friend, “He texted me! ” and she replies, “Yay!”, we’re not a generation lost staring at screens. We’re in corsets being handed scrolls sealed with his coat-of-arms. We’re in sundresses waiting for the postman to drop his letter. We’re on swing sets hoping to circle ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ We’re a million starry eyes still staring at the same starry skies with fingers crossed and hopes high.