Life imitates art (or vice versa, whatever)

I just got back from Nuit Blanche, which was a fine time. I spent my night in Zone C, and there was more than enough going on to make it worth my while. I didn’t get to see everything, but nobody ever does.

People are bound to complain about the crowds and lines after all is said and done. I can’t speak for the rest of the town, but I can tell you that down on Queen West, the streets were flooded with people wandering aimlessly. And frankly, I don’t blame them. When you’ve got a strip full of official exhibitions and independent projects, along with folks who showed up in costume or otherwise decided to bring their own thing to the table, then people are going to have a tough time knowing what’s art and what isn’t.

This isn’t going to sound true, but it is. Tonight I saw a couple of people standing on the street and gazing through a restaurant window at a young couple eating. They were talking in hushed tones, perhaps about the artist’s intentions or the significance of this and the meaning of that. The only problem is, it wasn’t an exhibit.

To be fair, I’m sure it looked a lot like an exhibit. It was a bland white restaurant on a block full of galleries, and they were the only couple sitting there. I could understand why someone might think they were art. But yeah, they were just a young couple having dinner.

I’m sure that sort of thing could be the start of a great conversation about what constitutes art, the role it plays in everyday life, and all that kind of stuff. If you want to get the ball rolling, be my guest. But I hope you won’t mind if I go to bed while you do.

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