The Mortality of Art and Love

This is going to be a little expirament.  Those of you who check in here typically only do so to read my mindless ramblings regarding my adventures or my constant desire to chase the sun.  At the recommendation of a friend I have decided to also post my occasional interpersonal thoughts.  I am doing this at the risk of exposing too much of myself so I will cautiously dip my toe in the waters of philosophy.  For the majority of you, I will apologize in advance for this self indulgent rant that serves no purpose other than cheap therapy for myself.  Here goes:

Where is it written that there is something tragic about a work of art that does not persist over time?  We are foolish to think that paint will not fade on a canvas or that a sculpture will not erode given ambient conditions and the simple factor of unforgiving time.  We do our best to preserve those things because we make the assumption that they are at their most desirable in their original state; therefore that is how they should be maintained.  So through restoration and preservation and diligent maintenance we cling to an illusion of timelessness and immortality.  Maybe in some small way this is “us” in denial of our own mortality.  So we do all we can to restore these works of art without stopping to consider that maybe, and stay with me, just maybe that the slow deterioration of a piece of art is an essential part of the true essence of the creation itself. 

Maybe if we step back to consider that love might be very similar.  Is love timeless?  Immortal?  Immune to the relentless deterioration caused by ambient conditions and time?  Or is love something else altogether?

Love, like art, is an expression of one’s emotional constitution at any given time.  I guess it can be argued that art is an outward expression while love is an inward expression.  But the question remains; is love exempt from the laws of physics and time?  If love requires constant maintenance and restorative efforts is it still love?  Is it truly the same work of art or a facade painted over where love used to be?  Was it ever really love at all or, as a painting, just a permanent reminder of a temporary feeling?  And finally, is the slow deterioration simply part of the cycle of love?

I don’t know.

I guess when I think about what I personally believe I would have to say that art and love can be restored and maintained.  They can still achieve some form of their original objective.  But after the touch ups and maintenance and restoration I do not believe that they are the same.  Sure they can be every bit as beautiful and functional.  But is it still truly the same?  I don’t believe so.

…although (and here I go over thinking things again) - if we view art, life and love as mortal and accept that nothing is permanent maybe we can see more clearly the true value and beauty of the work of art, the absolute experience of love in its purest form, and see true happiness in life.  Hmmm.

I now have a headache.  …shit.