The institutional theory is the most complex theory in the aesthetics field. Also, the most recent that covers the definition of, “what is art?” According to this theory, the argument holds, “X is an artwork, if the “art world” says it is. The art world consists of individuals who have intellectual knowledge on aesthetics AND history of art.
Art therapy also backs up Collingwood’s theory, as art is supposed to express emotions. Many war veterans, amongst other victims of life’s disaster, use art therapy as a process in a treatment to recover from their pasts. Whether it’s painting, writing, or some other form of art, war veterans become artists.
In this case, therapists are considered the “art world.” If the art piece is not exposed to anyone else. Therefore, it is still classified as art in the sense of the classificatory definition. The piece is an artifact created by humans and a status is conferred even if it is just one individual. (“Emily Dickinson”) It is still not none. Therefore it is still art.
However, not all art is revealed to the art world nor was intended to be exposed to the art world initially. Therefore it can’t be art according to the early institutional theory. This includes the poems of Emily Dickenson that weren’t published until after her passing and also the likes of art therapy. Therefore, theorists could argue that these particular art pieces are not indeed art.
The transition of the institutional theory from early to later, excludes the conferring sense. So therefore, even if the “art world” cannot see an art piece, it is still art, even if it is not intended for the public eye. Therefore, art pieces created in art therapy and Emily Dickenson’s poems are still considered art.
“Emily Dickinson: Lives of a Poet.” New York: Braziller, 1986. Print.
Words aren’t with value,
If actions don’t follow.
I’m far from perfect,
But my few promises are never hollow.
Society consumes its addiction,
Of hatred and negative vibes.
It doesn’t matter of intentions,
It’s the same patterns I find.
I rather be around no one,
Than be around the chaos.
For people are so quick to judge,
Even for those who are pathos.
I love to express my emotions,
But society these days make it very hard.
I will always have the upper hand,
For I continue to hold the trump card.
You can talk or type your words,
Without skipping a beat.
But if you can’t walk the walk,
How is it we are supposed to believe?
So play all the games you want,
I refuse to go down without a fight.
I will continue to create my Utopia,
Through my heart, soul, body, and mind.
With or without you,
I will continue this fulfilling mission.
There is no turning back,
For I continue to listen to my intuition.
How is it living in Kings?
I guess you didn’t expect to be in assisting living at fifty-six.
Do you even know me? Do I look familiar?
Do you even remember?
The baby girl you vouched for your own;
backed me up all the way to a DNA test to clarify my blood?
I was always daddy’s little girl from the day I was born,
I stood up for you even when you weren’t even around.
Misunderstood child always siding with her old man,
As the lies stacked up on the other end.
It wasn’t just my grandfather and uncle that only influenced,
You’re military service helped my decision become fluent.
Twenty-four years old and a call from mom,
At this point I’m still self-medicating and befriending my demons.
when I finally realized your escape from your past traumas.
Karma, karma, karma when you fell from that latter.
Now I comprehended loud and clear why you were in and out
Of my life and my brother’s.
You decided to choose alcohol and drugs instead of being a father.
The good news, your consequences influenced me to give up the liquor.
The ugly truth shines in the light,
And now you lost your right to your children and grandchildren,
But dementia has prevented you from becoming guilt-ridden,
As you stay in illusion about serving within a Mexican prison.
A smile, a socializing soul,
Loud music, food junkie;
A discovery of solitude,
A peaceful breach
Away from the urban ruckus.
Calm and collected,
In a personal twilight zone.
The rhythm of the bruised heart,
Flowing in tune and idolizing
With the currents.
Inspiration glows within.
My mind is put at ease.
Of living creatures;
Minimizes the noises of demons,
Inside and out.
Paddling to stay ahead of the crowd,
Gnats, and mosquito.
Zig-zagging around tree branches
That swim until exhaustion,
sink into the darkness,
Or rests ashore a sand bar.
Apparent, nightmarish for the city slick,
But a joyful challenge for one
Who’s passion unfolds with the wild.
In nature a secret revealed
For a spiritual measure.
How do you say goodbye, to the shit that’s not healthy for you?
Turn off the light, shut the door, and walk away in silent.
I still struggle with it.
Do you swallow that pride and weed out the demons in disguise,
Amongst the rest of the people in your life,
Even if your back is against the ropes and your hands are tied.
Take that bravery and let out the pain,
Tell your story to draw the picture on that paper,
For the next generation’s sake.
You can only be wrong for so long.
Adjust that fist, be ready to punch.
At the end of the day you can only take so much.
People be making me feel like I need to go live in my own world,
Off of a mountain or something.
Starting to get tired of society as a whole for their ignorance,
Hatred, and non-educational judgments.
There’s so many can of worms I could expose,
But I don’t.
I guess it’s a part of me growing and maturing.
It’s not how I want my fifteen minutes of fame,
It’s not how I want my character to impose.
The potential low blows for those
That slows my hope for our humanity…
Even though I have my days of feeling like a ticking time bomb,
It’s not how I want my reputation to compose.