We (all) often forget that every single thing any of us does is so stupendously unlikely in such a vast and ultimately meaningless Cosmos that every act, every thought and every artefact or consequence is of monumental significance. We corral these wonders into the small, everyday concepts and containers of art and objects we can discuss or consider and build narratives and meaning around. The meanings we make are what provide our lives with substance but we feel compelled to isolate them in containers or concepts because it creates that difference and symmetrical distance by which we ourselves become admissible as real.
The difficult concept to grasp, at least at first, is in comprehending that the meaning and significance we assert upon, in and through art is in not bound by an object, an artist or a place and a concept – the meaning is all of us, distributed without priority or importance, and it is merely a measure of the extent to which our minds can not understand a world without focal points or centres that invokes our psychological reflex to assert meanings to things, to cloak them in value which is fictional, empty, futile. We are all that value and in acknowledging this, we also cease to exist, at least as individuated psychological selves.