The trees are art. The wind that causes them to sway is art. I am art, one man, standing at a train station watching the wind in the trees.
Imagine a window looking in on an art gallery. The art is what you can see through the window: people looking at paintings. The art is both the window and the people.
Imagine an art exhibition made up of nothing but windows: each one looking out at a different scene. Through one you see the tree tops; swaying or still. Through another, the streets of the city. Small cars go by outside. Toy cars; real cars.
Look up, through the skylight at the centre of this exhibition of windows and see the clouds above. Or blue sky. Glance across the room and spot a reflection of yourself in one of the windows, a hanging light obscuring the view beyond.
Realise then: that you are art.
Good morning, Monday.