Today we no longer know what to call art, what its function is and even less what function it will have in the future. We know only that it is something dynamic — unlike many ideas that have governed us.
“Ah! red-leafed time hath driven out the rose
And crimson dew is fallen on the leaf
Ere ever yet the cold white wheat be sown
That hideth all earth’s green and sere and red;
The Moon-flower’s fallen and the branch is bare,
Holding no honey for the starry bees;
The Maiden turns to her dark lord’s demesne.”
Ezra Pound | “Canzon: The Yearly Slain”