The living of Art.
There is no single “art of living.” There are as many ways to live as there are lives. But there is art within life—ranging in importance from incidental to essential. In my own life, art has always played a central role. It was public, and in my childhood and youth my parents rarely missed an exhibition. Alongside hikes through the Taunus, it was our favorite diversion.
Early on I noticed how differently people and families relate to art. Outside my family, I was often alone with my admiration. Not until upper school did I find real resonance, when my art teacher sparked in me an open commitment to art.
Art tells you a great deal about people: what they love, revere, or reject; how they position themselves toward it. Through a person’s relationship to art, I’ve been able to learn a lot—without words, status symbols, or stories. Walls don’t lie.
Nor do bookshelves. You could once read a person by the books they owned—and by their records. There were many clear signs of who stood before you. Much of that has vanished from view today. As a result, it’s become harder to read people; posing and posturing are easier than ever.
It wasn’t possible to the same extent back then. Anyone who had Miles Davis on vinyl, Pablo Neruda on the shelf, and the film poster of “2001: A Space Odyssey” on the wall had already said everything about themselves.
