Oscar Wilde, another personal hero. And he is absolutely right. Wilde believed in something for its own sake. Art is a universe of its own. Build a device to span the dimensions of possibility, and you will open a door into a world of the highest ideals, of uselessness and beauty, of frivolity and undefinability, and on that door is the label "Art". That is what Wilde proclaims. Art is the ideal. Art is what we strive for, art is what life strives for. One step ahead of us, we are always chasing it, to catch up.

I wonder, could Tolstoy's and Wilde's theories be compatible? Tolstoy speaks of art as a communication, a venue for the emotions. Wilde regards art like kitsuné-bi (Japanese foxfire)-- illusory, beautiful, magical, something not of this world, and challenging this world. It could be entirely possible that feelings are from the realm where Art dwells, feeling that is so volatile, so incomprehensible, so beyond. Art is to capture that feeling, to tap into that demesne of wonder. Usually in our society feeling is usurped for common sense. Understandable, which is perhaps why Wilde finds that art is beyond. The feelings that we humans can even show seem inadequate to Wilde's vision, perhaps because after all the filters and blocks in our personality, it comes out diluted.

Human beings are always striving for that golden dream, or just a dream. A dream that art encaptures. Could it be that life is just a shadow of art? A shadow of a dream?