#Art

Aesthetics is the eternal wordplay about what is beautiful, functioning as decorative jargon that flatters the viewer’s pride while requiring no real practice. To art dealers and critics it is a tool of commerce, to students merely homework fodder. At times it works like a magic trick, making us feel we glimpsed life’s meaning in a mere five millimeters of paint. Ultimately, it is a high-end gimmick that sells illusions under the guise of scholarship.

AI art is the burgeoning art form that confines human imagination and dignity to lines of code, professing its will through numerical computation by splicing and dicing existing works. It proclaims boundless creativity, yet often amounts to a patchwork of algorithmically selected fragments. While boasting infinite potential, the creator’s face recedes into shadows and original copyright holders wear awkward smiles. That the metric of quality shifted from "visually pleasing" to "who clicked" seems ironically fitting.

Architectural photography is the act of sanctifying inert concrete facades as if they were religious relics, beautifying them through a ceremonial interplay of light and shadow. An empty office tower, when framed by the photographer, is elevated into a futuristic cathedral. Yet this gaze discards the human dramas within and the reality of decay, crafting the fiction of the “perfect edifice.” The pristine glass curtain wall becomes a stage prop that praises the architect’s ambition while concealing flaws in construction. What is truly captured is the artifice of architectural beauty and the magic that makes us forget the harshness of maintenance.

Assemblage is the mischievous art form that summons fine art from a pile of junk. An old toy once relegated to the corner becomes a gallery star sold at a princely sum. It's the absurd ritual in which chaos achieves recognition as art, flipping the spectator's sense of value on its head.

Woodcarving is the ritual of inscribing human desire onto a pristine block of wood, only to produce absurd trinkets. The artisan’s endurance becomes minute chisel marks, forced to coexist with dust the moment the piece is finished. This craft masquerades as self-expression while massacring timber, staging a cruel spectacle for the beholder. It reveals the brutal truth that the agony of creation is the real pleasure, and the final product is merely a hollow facade.

A woodcut is the luxurious ordeal of carving a block of wood, slathering it with ink, and pressing it with abandon onto paper’s surface. Each slight misalignment reeks of the artisan’s obsession and defeat. The method’s antiquity serves merely as an excuse called “tradition,” forcing modern souls into superfluous analog torment. In the shadow of mass production, one can almost hear the laments of artists ensnared by wood shavings and ink.