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.
“Wheresoe’er I turn my view,
All is strange, yet nothing new;
Endless labour all along,
Endless labour to be wrong;
Phrase that Time has flung away,
Uncouth words in disarray:
Trickt in antique ruff and bonnet,
Ode and elegy and sonnet.”
Samuel Johnson | “Lines on Thomas Warton’s Poems”