When we cast our minds eye deep into squared stone,
into bleached canvas or lumped clay...
into shiny new spools of thread or empty manuscript pages,
we sometimes hear the silent electricity of some elusive spirit
calling on us to shape it from the emptiness before us.

Dragons and fairies beg us for eyes and wings.
Clouds beg us for open air.
Wolves and women beg us for large hungry mouths.
Delinquent young malcontents beg us for careless countenances and eternal cigarettes.
Ambiguous protagonists beg us for meaningful lives.

These assemblages, endeavors and desecrations we generously decree "art"
and we hold them high
above the humdrum utilitarian and accidental incarnations of matter
that belong in the dimensions of nature and industry.
These incarnations hold court as the kings and queens of matter.
These are the celebrations of mans love affair with time, with space, with insanity and with immortality.

The spider finds his art in the hopeless **** of the captured fly against the sticky trappings of the web.
For him, it's desperate black buzz holds all of the sway of a fine orchestra flawlessly reciting some intricate overture.