by Hannah Wenzel
I argue that art is what we make it. It cannot be defined in simplistic notions of paintings or sculpture because even collections of numbers can be art in their own way.
What matters is the way we create it.
So why is art important to our survival now?
The clicking of my camera accompanies my walk down a copper-coloured alleyway with a glass-blowing merchant on my right and a green shuttered townhouse on my left.
The street is cobbled, but no rumblings can be heard, as no cars would dare venture down these narrow side streets. They remain confined away from the central pedestrian areas of Gamla Stan, an island that makes up much of the city’s old town that could be mistaken for somewhere in France, Italy or Austria. Renaissance meets medieval meets old sandstone architecture in varying shares of red, orange, yellow, and the sun shines in burnt tones onto the walls. I am surrounded by four—and five-story blocks making up a labyrinth of alleys and wider people-filled streets with postcard stands and cafe chairs spilling onto the cobbles.
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