Once, I traveled to museums and galleries across the country.
But at some point, I began to see only the works that caught my eye.
That clean, sterile air that permeates exhibition spaces.
The white box is a coffin for beauty.
Paintings and sculptures can be viewed as study. But there is no “real experience” there.
Beauty worth hundreds of millions, seen through glass.
Unable to hold, unable to touch, unable to live with—in that way, beauty remains forever someone else’s.
That is why I believe:
To speak of beauty, one must own it.
Only by incorporating it into one’s life and living with it at the risk of one’s very existence can one reach the depths of beauty.
This means proving with one’s own intuition whether one’s aesthetic sense is “correct.”
Art books and museums are, after all, merely preliminary to this.
I do not deny their value. However,
truth can only be revealed through ownership.
Sometimes, the casual moments shared with genuine artists turn out to be more truthful.
Their purity is surprisingly “ordinary” and straightforward.
Beauty is not something special. It simply exists, straightforwardly, within daily life.
Whether one can recognize this or not.
That is the only difference.
