Art—or at least, good art, or at least, inspired art—makes the mundane things of life fascinating. And more than anything in life, I think it’s that particular ability of art that fills me with wonderment and merriment. Because suddenly, all around us the world swells to enormous proportions as each ignoble thing becomes ripe with profundity and beauty and every disregarded “it” becomes a subject worthy of meditation and contemplation and delectation. That’s magic.
And artists are the magicians because all artists can use their art to turn the mundane into magic.
But it’s not really magic. No, not really.
I think that what I call “magic” is really an opening up of one’s ability to see things as God sees them. And that feels like magic, because it is so…other…than us. So contrary to us.