You live art when that experience transcends skill. When it grabs a work of pristine execution and takes it into a realm of lived riches, endured pain, yearned memories, and quenched desire. When you catch a glimpse just to be drawn into sucking up the rest, leaving no crumbs behind. When your living is being touched, almost explained, without ever understanding it.
That art comes into being with a blind hand that does not dwell on its skill but searches for that understanding. A hand that screams out or quivers under duress, that shakes because of that beauty felt.
And that experience can be had with everything you do. Art is the art of being alive. It is that simple.
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