How to decide whether something is art
Did genius effect its genesis?
Was it lovingly crafted by skilled hands?
Were its elements expertly blended?
Was it studied, intended, drafted, planned?
If it was not, it is not art;
Chit-litter has no place on my chart.
Does it command great material wealth?
Can its worth be weighed in heavy metal?
Will it mature like fine wine if cellared?
Has its status superpublicity?
If it has not, it is not art;
Just a cheap temptress: a pretentious tart.
Was it brought forth to this world in great pain?
Did its creator suffer for its birth?
Was hair tugged and torn to blasphemous words?
Do blood, tears and bile combine at its core?
If they do not, it is not art,
But a childish falsehood: false-hope, false-start.
Does it exist in a physical form?
Can you add depth to its two dimensions?
Can you play palps across its close contours
And, leaning in, inhale its history?
If you can not, it is not art;
Zeroes and ones do not beat this heart.
Is it composed, for the most part, from paint?
Is it, in fact, a painting on canvas
In oils distinct by blue and red tinctures
That one might describe as Pre-Raphaelite?
If it’s not, I’ll not call it art;
And in its patronage I’ll play no part.
Mistaken for art or rubbish