Umid's Collection of Writing

...And it is in the author’s carefree whims to do nothing more than admire and analyze and trivialize this delightful spring day with floaty and flowery words that conjure vivid images and ideas into the reader’s mind; or, such was the intent. Call it an ‘art,’ if you will, that skill of putting images in the mind’s of others with words alone, but no matter the status held to poetic drabbles, one must applaud the sheer mediocrity of this text. [...]

Perhaps I may be countered by talk of the poem’s purpose: ‘It is art, Umid! Not all art is meant to be analyzed and torn apart; a realistic painting of a colorful flower can be seen as just that.’ Ah, but other pieces, such as the famous [name], which comes across to me and some others- I assure you!- as hazy, sloppy, and immature is said to be “[professional quote of some critic describing the deeper meaning of the work.]”, as [name of author of quote] eloquently put it. So, is art then categorized into two groups? Pieces that should be taken at face value, and pieces that should be further broken down and pondered?

What then, of the author’s intent? Did [name of artist] intend for the general consensus of his work, a piece that has only attained notoriety in the last [blank] years, be that his view of the world is that of a“ ...Twisted locale twice fogged over and deceivingly dotted in a dozen hues”? If he hadn’t, then there is no way to know; [name] has long since left this world, leaving only art and self-imposed impressions behind. Perhaps the mismatched colors were a mistake, and rather than start anew, he persevered and chose his colors accordingly. Perhaps his artwork held no meaning, or perhaps it held an entirely unknown message.

And what then, of the viewer? [...]