(*) The Only Magic Left is Art. - (Elizaveta Porodina)

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The Revolution has Started.

THE THEORY: The most talented people in the world are not in Hollywood.

THE EXPERIMENT: The Only Magic Left is Art.

This may sound dramatic. But when you cut out the fat at the bone, art is all about drama. It stirs the human spirit. So here's what we say. For years, art has been segregated. The "artists" separated from the "common man". If you walk into an art gallery/movie theatre/concert and don't "get" what you see/hear, You're a simpleton. Well, all that stops now. Because the common man and the artist are one and the same. Or at least here on this small spec of spot on the massive internet, that's what we're striving for. Artists have forgotten their roots. They've forgotten that they were once the common man, and once thought like the common man. And the common man denies his inner spirit, he refuses to feel. Because what is art besides expressionism? As flawed as this ideal may be of course, every ideal is, well, just that. An ideal from an imperfect mind. Good art can come from anyone, anywhere. Any class, race, age or sex. So we're going to show you. One artist at a time. And the experience that you take from it; good, bad, bewilderment, or total rapture is YOUR experience and nobody can take that away from you. Art is all about the experience. And dare I say, each and every one's experience or reaction to that art is relevant in some way.

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Like everything, The Only Magic Left is Art isn’t a phrase I just instantly came up with. It came gradually and was influenced by several things. The fleshed out meaning of what it meant and what it would mean wouldn’t come to until the chemicals in my brain refused to cooperate and try to destroy my body.

I think the imagination is underrated and the only set of people who don’t realize this are kids and artists. But when you look back on how you grew up, you’ll realize how big of a part it had a play in your life. It was as if your imagination was your surrogate father, it didn’t judge you, it never told you to clean your room, and it always comforted you when it felt like the world was a big monster. It was as if the imagination was something even greater than you. And anytime you wanted it to come out and play, it would and it never got tired you, never said it was busy. It was just there, always waiting.

Then you became an adult and somewhere between high school and college you threw your imagination in the trash. Of course, others didn’t, they went to art school, became musicians, and filmmakers. But the rest of us decided to take on “practical jobs’. And as things progressed, our negative view of things spiraled out of control. And we’d use new outlets for how to deal with things changed, but somehow they were less than fulfilling. We’d often have thoughts at the workplace about being a kid again.

Because what we forgot as kids is that our imagination saved our life. That is when we felt the most alive and happy because things were much simpler right?

What I’m about to say may be flawed in someway but it’s how I feel anyway. We’ve been able to explain the world around us in almost every way possible through science, mathematics and history. But one of the few things left that we cannot explain is ART. Where it comes from? And why we have the desire to create it. I don’t know about you, but to me, there is something magical about that. When I see the things that mere humans can come up with in the art world, it’s somewhat supernatural to me. It’s proof that there is something “bigger” than us and I don’t think we should take that for granted.

Now I’m not asking you to believe in what I believe, or even to believe in God. All I’m asking you is to consider the supernatural nature of art and how so many of us have used it to save our own lives. It tells me there is something bigger than us. And I am thankful that I was blessed with it or I’d personally have ended my life a long time ago.

Nothing on this Earth Can Hold Art a Prisoner. Because it’s something inside you that will never die.

- B.C. Long

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