Sight is not consummated in the eye. Sight is fulfilled by inner reckoning. A work of art is realized when the sight of it satisfies an undefined need. When living has depleted us of hope and deadened our senses, art can transfuse a stream of revelations that revive an atrophied awareness.
For decades art has been its own antithesis. It eschewed its raison d’etre. A desert lies where once there was a luxuriant garden. We have a fine palate for ground glass.