We must never forget that art is not a form of propaganda; it is a form of truth … the nation which disdains the mission of art invites the fate of Robert Frost’s hired man, the fate of having “nothing to look backward to with pride, and nothing to look forward to with hope.”
The urge to reflect truth exists not exclusively within the creative sphere, but takes its most abstract yet complete form there, it seems. And no matter one’s adeptness or lack thereof, the very moment of fruition yields joy, pure and simple, however fleeting.
Might as well end with that most “truthy” of artistic endeavours:
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty’, — that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
[Addendum: I should add that the “thou” referred to in the verse above is the Grecian Urn on which Keats makes his Ode. Art in all its forms is not the only object of beauty or representation of truth on God’s green earth, but it is surely the superlative way “To see a world in a grain of sand, / And a heaven in a wild flower, / Hold infinity in the palm of your hand / And eternity in an hour.”]