What if art has no utilitarian value? It serves no purpose. We pretend it educates; we pretend it imitates and represents. We gain nothing of survival value in art.
But...
What if art in its utter uselessness reflects the irrelevance of our own life as made important by each of us, the artist of our own life. We tell stories about our life, the narrator of our own creation myth. But our story is irrelevant. Every life is irrelevant in that nothing matters in the great scheme of things. Where the survival of the planet, let along life on the planet, means nothing. Our mundane concerns...
What if all art is the tragic immaterial? What if it is inconsequential? Then, all we have is the instantaneous delight of our sensory perceptions, even if we don't like it. In that sense it is the most immediate thing, and worth nothing but for the moment.
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