It was something you saw on accident, though part of you had been searching for it all your life. It was made of twine and polyurethane and distressed canvas and had a cinematic quality to it, containing a film element: repetitive loops of the moment you finally discovered the truth about God, though it certainly wasn’t you in the film having your epiphany–this was an actor, obviously. The Artist had given the role to an ideal image of yourself–more beautiful and a decade younger. Some described The Art as romantic, though certainly not sentimental in the classic connotative sense. It reminded you of your mother, or motherhood, or of how everything must come from something else, which is all art, of course, and all of everything else, too. The musical component was unsettling in a way that somehow reaffirmed your most difficult choices, the ones that perhaps felt impulsive or questionable at the time but that now, reflected in the Platoneon perfection of The Art, appeared essential and true, even glorious, undoubtable. Some people cried when they saw it. Others laughed uncomfortably or earnestly or sort of shakily in relief. Most saw The Art once and preferred to never see it in person again, choosing to carry the diluted memory of it with them, wanting the softer way their minds held it, like how one can more easily endure a photo of the sun. There were many impassioned, diverse groups of people who discussed The Art’s possible meaning in weekly or biweekly groups, and the conversation never exhausted. What did it mean? Did it mean anything? It possessed you, too, as good art does. You could now hear, you admitted, with no better way to describe it, a kind of humming under everything. The moment you first saw it acted as a great filter, showing you the certain beauty of your life, which now seemed saturated with a singular purpose–which you didn’t have words for, which you likely couldn’t have words for, which is why The Art was made.

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