Why, Art?

Art, of course serves many purposes. That is why it is blended into our history, like a golden thread woven into fabric. Even graffiti, the least of the Arts. Funny that graffiti would pop up in this 'entry'. I got to thinking about the Art that was 'done' on the street Saturday evening. I know why the Artist did that, but nothing has a simple past or meaning. This was done by an accomplished young Artist. It was done boldly and it was mildly controversial. The Crime Scene Outline held the hint of a pistol and had a red heart. While I watched him draw, I thought that the piece would be controversial and I held the disquiet I felt.
A friend approached me later on Sunday and said that the pistol bothered him/her. Tried to erase it. I understood. We rid ourselves of what is offensive, like hunting down a vague stink coming from the basement. Perhaps we can't find it, or we no longer notice it or just slightly. Perhaps we have made a deal with the elements and come to accept the stench of things or events as part of the burden of life. Perhaps we think it is us.
Along comes a chipper soul and announces: "Hey, it stinks here."
Sideways glances and gritting teeth. Why can't you be nice, we demand of the Artist, paint some pretty pictures, you know, Real Art. Like Magnificent Landscapes (said with broad gestures of the hands, like fishing lies). Or Still Lives (like our own Lives) that look like photos. Something that is uplifting.
Poor guy, it is all he can do to get through the days, to mark the weeks and years passing.
Creativity is a flighty lover, comes dressed for the costume ball. Never know what you will get. Sometimes you settle for a wink, sometimes a breathtaking and earth shattering orgasm. The Artist is just the tool, an extension on the brush. Like the paint, the artist too is the medium. Scraped, scratched, blowdried and overlaid. Who knows who really runs the show.
Have I woken in a Genet play?
My mentor Steve said: "If it isn't hated by the provincial, it isn't Art."