What a peculiar thing is music. Sounds, crudely produced and organized into patterns, can beget in us passions that move our bodies and stir our souls. Buzz a lip upon a brass tube and we imagine ourselves conquering heroes. Tap a wooden stick on a stretched skin and we’re agents of war. Scratch horse hair across a gut string and our hearts melt.
Our selves — the series of chemical reactions that take place in the mushy gray matter floating in our skulls — are a process of development and change. We are neither good nor bad; we are endless potentiality.
Art is the direct line to our selves. It is the realm of symbols: sounds, words, images, movements, personas. If we undervalue the power of symbols on our selves, we place our selves and our society in peril.
Now, more than ever, we need great art and great artists.